


Bruce and Tony and Blessed Death

by semaphore27



Series: Götterdämmerung 24/7 [6]
Category: Captain America (Movies), FrostIron Fandom, Iron Man (Movies), Norse Religion & Lore, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Best Friends, Brother Feels, Brotherly Love, Bruce Angst, Bruce Banner & Tony Stark Friendship, Bruce Feels, Bruce Has Issues, Child Death, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Childhood Trauma, Children, Epic Friendship, Evil Plans, F/F, F/M, Family Drama, Family Dynamics, Family Feels, Friendship, Gen, Good Loki, Husbands, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Intersex Loki, Loki Angst, Loki Feels, Loki Has Issues, Loki's Kids, M/M, Magic, Magic-Users, Married Couple, Married Life, Parent Tony Stark, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Relationship(s), References to Illness, Same-Sex Marriage, Sick Character, Team as Family, Tony Angst, Tony Feels, Tony Has Issues, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-09 06:51:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14711202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/semaphore27/pseuds/semaphore27
Summary: Science is easy, relationships are hard. Tony Stark is crazy about his new family, but as September rolls to an end, with the kids and Loki back in school for the past month, the interactions between Tony's best friend and ScienceBro Bruce and new husband continue to be less than cordial, Fenrir is having a hard time finding his place in the world, Tony and Loki are still mourning their lost baby and Tony's favorite kid (not that he has favorites) is also proving to be his most difficult. Besides which, whoever is behind Loki's troubles appears to be at it again.





	1. Prologue:  Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?

**Author's Note:**

> As the story begins, Tony and Loki have been married a little over four months.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki and Tony host a dinner party. Everything appears to go well... until it doesn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> " _I do not like thee, Doctor Fell_ ," is a lesser-known nursery rhyme written in 1680 by English poet (aka 17th century smartass) Tom Brown, but not included in _Mother Goose_ until 1926. Rumor has it that when Brown was studying at Christ Church, Oxford, he ran afoul of the dean, John Fell, and was expelled as a result. Dr. Fell offered to readmit him if Brown could translate the 32nd Epigram of Martial (namely, _Non amo te, Sabidi, nec possum dicere quare;/Hoc tantum possum dicere, non amo te._ ) off the top of his head. Brown answered the challenge with the "Dr. Fell" rhyme, which although not too far off the mark as translations go, probably didn't win him much favor in the dean's eyes.
> 
> Although much of its popular usage is recent, the term "the side eye" (or side-eye) was already in circulation in 1922, when James Joyce included the phrase in _Ulysses_ ("side eye at my Hamlet hat"). Then, as now, it worked a kind of an ocular shorthand for expressing "I can't believe you said/did/wore/expect me to believe that."
> 
> "saved their bacon"=saved from death or harm  
> In medieval times, the word "bacon" was used the same way we use "pork," and as a slang word for the human body (in the same way "long pork"--in a cannibalistic context--means human flesh). To "save someone's bacon" mean to save their physical body, though it's also used now for other kinds of harm, such as financial or social embarrassment.

* * *

They lay close together in bed, warm with afterglow, both their heads on one pillow, keeping a comfortable dreamy silence--until Loki blurted out (in his smooth Loki way of blurting), “I have invited Professor Nelson to dinner on the morrow, beloved, if you do not object. Arrangements have been discussed with Mrs. Ransome.”

 _Fantastico_ , Tony thought.

"I know you like him not, beloved," Loki added, his eyes all glowy, intensely green, in the dim light of the candles he tended to cluster on every surface of every available piece of furniture.

"Lok, I've only met the guy once.  That's not much of a basis for disliking anyone.

Loki's single raised eyebrow wasn't quite a " _Yeah, sure_ " response--but it came close.

Tony knew full well that Loki realized he wasn't a fan of the seven-foot-tall Viking who occupied the office one door over in the NYU Arts and Sciences Building. Tony also knew his own response wasn't exactly reasonable. Nelson just rubbed him completely the wrong way, like Kurt when you annoyed him by brushing up his soft blue fur against the grain.

Nonetheless, Tony kissed Loki’s temple. “That’s great, Lok. I’m glad you’re inviting over a work friend.”

“You ought to invite Bruce,” Loki told him, which Tony recognized for exactly what it was, both an olive branch and a huge sacrifice on Loki’s part.

Never, if he lived a thousand years (which, with his wedding gift from Loki still readily available in his night stand drawer, wasn’t entirely out of the question) would he understand what was with his ScienceBro and Loki. In every single other instance, with practically everyone he’d ever met, Bruce never failed to be kind, generous, understanding, empathetic, courageous—all the good stuff in the world.

In the Battle of New York, he hadn’t suffered particularly at Loki’s hands. In fact, as his green alter-ego, he’d literally whomped Loki into the floor.

Bruce even understood--and as far as Tony knew, accepted--that the whole mess had been an impossible situation where Loki was concerned, and that he’d summoned up every bit of god of mischief trickery, military training and resistance he possessed to ensure the battle ended up a relatively contained event rather than a hugely destructive one.  He also knew Loki had saved their collective bacon in Latveria, at huge personal cost.

Yet Bruce still hated Loki with a fiery burning passion, for reasons even he couldn’t (or maybe wouldn’t) explain.

“It’s like the nursery rhyme,” Bruce told Tony, when confronted about the issue.

“Nursery rhyme?” Tony had given him the side-eye. “What fucking nursery rhyme?”

“You know. ‘ _I do not like thee, Dr. Fell…_ ”

“Say what?”

“ _I do not like thee, Doctor Fell_ ,” Bruce recited.

 _The reason why – I cannot tell;_  
_But this I know, and know full well,_  
_I do not like thee, Doctor Fell._

“What the actual fuck, Bruce?" Tony said. "You've gotta know that’s bullshit.”

"I don't 'gotta' know anything," Bruce answered.

"Even _I_ find the grammar in that statement horrifying," Tony told him. "Give me a real reason, and maybe--just maybe, mind you--I'll accept what you have to say."

“I know it's bullshit,” Bruce said. "I know it is.  I know, even if I wasn't your best man, I should have at least gone to your wedding, along with everyone else.  I knew that before.  I knew it after." Bruce pulled off his glasses and commenced polishing, his dark eyes troubled and sad, oddly naked without their protection. "I know all that," he added, in a hoarse quiet voice. “What else can I say?”

And so, that was that. Tony hadn’t been able to look at Bruce, much less talk to him, for something like three days—until, in fact, Loki insisted that Tony reconnect with his best friend, and they'd gone back to the way they'd always been, nothing discussed, nothing resolved.

 

“Thor and Jane will also attend our soiree,” Loki told Tony, snuggling closer in that delicious way he had, bare skin softer than satin against Tony's bare skin. his long, graceful fingers stroking back Tony’s hair.

Tony found the way he called their dinner part a "soiree" pretty damn adorable, as if Loki had just learned the term and felt proud of himself.

“I hope you told Mrs. Ransome to make piles of extra food,” Tony said. No, he still wasn't exactly thrilled about the impending arrival of Prof. Nels Lars Nelson, but he also didn't want to hurt his new husband's feelings, or make Loki think he couldn't invite over whomever he pleased, whenever he pleased.

“Indeed.” Loki laughed. “I asked her to prepare food sufficient for a week of repasts. Nels Lars is a mighty trencherman. As, indeed, is my brother.”

Loki's obvious pleasure made Tony glad he'd put the lid on his crankier feelings, especially since his husband had gone above and beyond when he'd invited his own guests to dinner, whether for business or personal reasons.

"I'll get to know your friend better," he said. "It'll be great, babe."

 _Great like a tax audit or a root canal_ , he thought, back molars firmly clenched.

Though Tony hoped, being caught up in sleepy happiness, Loki had managed to miss out on that particular bit of snark.

* * *

That Bruce arrived first of all their guests probably should have been seen as an omen.  On the surface, it wasn't a strange thing to expect--after all, Bruce lived in the building.  He didn't have to do anything but hop in an elevator heading upward.

About that time, Loki went extra-twitchy, but Tony put that down to his husband trying to get the boys ready more quickly than usual, and his happy anticipation of the arrival of his own guest.

Bruce wasn’t even overtly rude.  He insisted on talking science, something he and Tony usually discussed anyway, though Loki always seemed to regard their discussions as something close to quaint--which, rationally, may have been true if you happened to hail from Asgard and routinely traveled via Einstein-Rosen Bridge, aka The Bifrost.

To avoid any awkwardness, Loki excused himself to go tuck Fen and Jöri in, story time included. They’d settled on an 8:30 dinner hour to make this particular meal an adults-only affair—except for Hela, of course, who would no more have deigned to go to bed that early than she would have agreed to wear a frilly pink dress for any reason, up to and including the saving of her entire family's lives.

Thor and Jane--who also lived in the building, but must have caught an "arrive at the appointed time" elevator--ambled in about fifteen minutes after Bruce.  Jane wore an attractive navy blue sheathe adorned with a necklace that had to be Asgardian, Thor looked weirdly freakish in chinos and a plaid dress shirt that looked as if he'd either borrowed them from or went shopping for them with Steve.

Professor Nels Lars Nelson arrived last, of course, blowing into the penthouse like a Class Five hurricane touching down on a small Caribbean island. Tony had forgotten, with the passage of time, exactly _how_ ginormous the dude was. He had to be seven feet tall, with the same solid-but-cut build Thor had, only then some, though for anyone to actually be bigger and broader than his bro-in-law struck Tony as close to impossible.

Nelson also did not, apparently, possess an inside voice.

Still, Nelson had brought Loki a beautiful bottle of French wine, which Lok exclaimed over happily.  Tony received a bottle of small-batch single malt from someplace in Scotland he'd never heard of, Hela a bouquet of blood red baby roses, and each of the boys got a wonderfully intricate puppet to play with in the toy theater that Loki and their Uncle Thor had lately made for them.

Mrs. Ransome had outdone herself, even if watching Thor and Nelson eat made Tony think of the old Coneheads sketches from the _Saturday Night Live_ of his youth.

Even Bruce leaned over to whisper, “ _Consume mass quantities!_ ” in Tony’s ear.

Between the two of them, Nelson and Thor truly did consume enough food to feed the populace of a developing nation for about two years—as opposed to Loki, who barely picked at his food. Nerves aside, though, he was charming and gracious and kept the conversation moving smoothly, even if that conversation included way more of Nelson waxing rhapsodic about his own (fairly dull) adventures, and about his and Loki's "common interests" than in any way suited Tony’s taste.

He also seemed to be weirdly touchy-feely with Loki (especially for someone doing said touching and feeling directly in front of his target's newly-wedded husband): patting his hand, squeezing his shoulder, engulfing him in the circle of one giant arm.

Worse still, it hit Tony before many hours had passed that this Nordic behemoth totally appeared to be milking Loki for his knowledge and brilliance, with a look to adding a little sparkle to his own fairly lackluster career. In return--which in Tony's opinion made Nelson a dick of the highest order--he seemed to (cynically, in Tony’s eyes) offer Loki the two things Tony's sweet and damaged husband nearly always found himself helpless to resist: friendship and the approval of a masterful older man.

Even Nelson's twinkly blue eyes, broad smile and silvery Santa Claus beard began to look calculated in his eyes, as if Nelson chose to present himself as a huge, friendly bear of a man, when underneath that facade only the bear crouched in wait, savage and destructive.

 

Tony pointed this out soon after Loki shut the door behind their last guest, and Hela had taken herself off to bed.

“Why would you not wish me to have friends of my own?” Loki had responded, eyes huge with distress. “Beloved, why must you ruin my pleasure in this evening?”

“Ruining your evening, much less your pleasure in anything, is the very last thing on my mind, Lok. I just… The guy gives me a weird feeling. There’s something—I dunno— _hinky_ about him.”

“Hinky?” Loki repeated incredulously, his tone a perfect vocal equivalent of the famous Loki eyeroll.

"Hinky means suspicious, babe.  Off-putting."

“It is an utterly ridiculous word, as your criticism of my friend and colleague is also ridiculous. On what evidence, oh man of science, do you base this foolish assessment?”

Tony had a brainstorm. “Can you hear him, Lok? Inside your head? What does that tell you?”

Loki blinked—a slow considering blink. “No…” he answered at last, with a certain amount of hesitance. “Yet, that means nothing. I cannot hear everyone. Besides which, you yourself have cautioned me not to listen.”

“Oh, like you don’t? Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Loki.”

“I’ll hear none of your talk of bovine ordure. Such talk is crude, and not worthy of you, husband.”

Loki, Tony had learned, had two ways of saying "husband," one of them sweet, loving, comforting.  The other... not so much.

In fact, exactly the opposite.

“Sure, Lok, change the subject.” Tony laughed. “Just don’t come crying to me when this rises up to bite you in the butt, when the guy pilfers your work, or worse."

Loki drew himself up to his full height. “Believe me, I will not, husband. I know you harbor little patience with my ‘crying,’ as you say.”

With that, he removed himself to the terrace. Tony took his own self to bed, leaving all the post-dinner party mess.

He woke up in the mostly-dark pre-dawn hours, with Loki’s usual spot cold beside him and the distinct impression that his husband--after their first fight as a married couple--had never come to bed.

Downstairs, every dish had been washed and put away, every crumb swept up, as if the previous night’s gathering, the soiree Loki had so looked forward to, had never been.

When he looked through the glass doors, Tony saw his husband perched on one of the terrace’s iron chairs, his eyes wide and perfectly dry, his beautiful, long, white hands clamped over his mouth, that old, familiar look, like he was holding in the sounds of screaming that filled up his whole mind, but nobody else would ever hear.

Tony wanted to go to him—the gods knew he did—but somehow, instead, he fell asleep (read: passed out) in one of the overstuffed chairs in the living room with the open bottle of Nels Lars Nelson’s small-batch single malt between his thighs, scotch spilled everywhere.

He woke up a second tome (came to, really) with a soul-destroying hangover, and (later, when he could stand the head-splitting noise of his own voice) had to call to have the upholstery cleaned. Also later in the morning, Hela came down, already neat and tidy in her school uniform, to find Tony hunched, red-eyed and cranky, over a cup of black coffee at the dining table.

She gave him a long, slow, appraising look, then just shrugged and shook her head.

Speaking of soul-destroying


	2. Team Loki... And Otherwise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce starts to tell Tony about walking Hela home from her music lesson. Loki interrupts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bichon Frise are those little white puffball dogs that look something like toy poodles without poodle cuts.
> 
> Bobst Library is the graduate library at NYU.
> 
> Mary Janes=the classic little girl shoe with a buckled strap across the instep.
> 
> A golem is a creature from Jewish folklore, basically an animated human-shaped being, magically created from inanimate matter, usually mainly dirt or dust.
> 
> Drano=officially, the name-brand drain-cleaner made by S.C. Johnson, though in the U.S., it's often used to mean drain-cleaners in general.
> 
> "pouring beer down their throats using funnels and hoses"=using a "beer bong" aka "funneling" a contraption used to drink a large amount of beer in a short period of time. Yuck.
> 
> zip tie=an alternate name for cable tie
> 
> blue pills=Viagra, an erectile dysfunction drug, often used by men "of a certain age"
> 
> piehole=a slightly rude way of saying mouth
> 
> Cave bears ( _Ursus spelaeus_ ) were related to modern brown bears (their common ancestor is thought to have been the Etruscan bear). Males had an average length of just over 3 meters (10 feet) and a weight of 350 to 600 kg (770 to 1,320 lbs, though the largest may have weighed up to 2200 pounds), the much smaller females weighed 225 to 250 kg (495 to 550 lbs). They went extinct during the Last Glacial Maximum, around 24,000 years ago.
> 
> GQ, previously called _Gentlemen's Quarterly_ is a men's fashion and lifestyle magazine.
> 
> Telenovelas are Spanish-language soap operas. They tend to be very dramatic.
> 
> TMI=Too Much Information
> 
> Big Apple=New York City  
> The nickname became popular in the 1920's after being used a number of times by _New York Morning Telegraph_ sports writer John J. Fitz Gerald, who in a February 18, 1924 column titled " _Around the Big Apple_ " wrote: " _There's only one Big Apple. That's New York_."

* * *

The day Bruce started to tell him a story about Hela, their stroll home from St. Peter's Episcopal, and a runaway Bichon Frise (his daughter who, like her _Pabbi_ , preferred accuracy in all things, later confirmed the breed), Tony realized how far he'd strayed outside the family loop, and how frighteningly fast that had happened.

He'd thought he and Loki had hit reset after the disastrous, never-again-to-be-mentioned dinner party. True, his husband hadn't invited another friend over, or even talked about doing so (Tony chalked that one up to Loki's busy schedule), he hadn't followed up on finding an _au pair_ to relieve some of the pressure, or asked for help with the household or the kids, but otherwise he'd seemed like his usual weird and wonderful Loki self, wildly creative, alternately chatty and introspective, more loving and passionate than anyone Tony had ever known.

Then Tony found out how much remained hidden, under wraps only for him, and him alone, and the revelation knocked him flat on his ass.

His ScienceBro having much to do with the kids wasn’t in any way a usual thing. Loki didn't outright forbid contact, not as such--he was way too generous a person to come down so definitively against Tony's best friend--but the thought of Bruce and the kids alone together made him twitchy, and having messed up once, badly, adding to Loki's stress was _so_ much not on Tony's daily to-do list.

His husband had, not long before, expressed his thoughts on the subject in an unusually blunt way (for Loki, for whom Tony though the word "circuitous" might actually have been invented). His normally mobile mouth tightened to a small, flat, unhappy line, and he'd said, "Were the children with him, I fear your friend might bring the unkindness he feels toward me to their doorstep, and that I would wish to avoid for their sweet sakes, _hjarta minn."_

"Bruce wouldn't..." Tony began, but Loki cut him off with a raised hand, like a crossing-guard signaling, _Stop!_

"Not by intent, perhaps, but... subconsciously?"

"Subconsciously" was one of Loki's new words. He'd been reading books about psychology lately--not pop psychology either, but heavy clinical tomes intended for professionals, which he checked out from the Bobst Library at NYU.

Tony wasn't sure, as a whole, if the subject was a good one or a bad one for his husband. In some ways, maybe, ignorance could actually have been called bliss when it came to Loki's completely fucktastic upbringing in Asgard.

To make things worse, Loki always seemed to phrase his questions or comments about what he'd read in terms of his brother, not of himself.

"They should not have done that to Thor," he would say, "They should not." And then he'd start to do exactly what he always did, the subject of Bruce (or Asgard) having been raised. Just like on that uncomfortable, regrettable night, Loki’s eyes would go wide and blank, his knees would pull up to his chest, and his long, slender hands steal over his mouth, as if to hold in words that must not, under any circumstances, be let loose.

That time, though, the hands came down after a couple minutes, so that Loki could say. "Mayhap, however, I make mountains from molehills. Is that correct, my love, as a way to say the creation of something large from something small?"

"You got it, babe," Tony answered, still shaken from Loki's soundless scream pose. He'd have done just about anything, he sometimes thought, to never see his husband get that way ever again.

Only he _didn't_ do anything, did he? Except ignore those times, in hopes of them just going the fuck away. Which led him to a second, maybe more fundamental question--did he hate the soundless scream because of his husband's obvious pain, or did he hate it because of the squirmy way it made him feel?

Tony feared he knew the answer to that one, and (truth be told) that particular answer didn't exactly reflect well on him.

"I know not Bruce as you do," Loki continued, "And it may be my judgment is full of faults."

"Faulty," Tony corrected, which he also knew was miles away from what he should, or needed to, say.

"Faulty, I thank you." Loki took Tony's hand, staring deeply into his eyes. The fact that his husband blinked on the average about once every three minutes always made Tony's own eyes burn when they were looking eye-to-eye up close, which in turn made him blink about every other second, which in turn made him feel shifty.

"Bruce is your friend," Loki continued. The thought, _And hopefully that will be enough to stop your asshole buddy from treating my darling children in as shitty of manner as he always treats me_ , remained unsaid by his tactful husband. "And, as they are also your children, as well as my own, I defer to your wise judgment, best-beloved."

Considering that Tony's money would be fully on his husband, should it come to a question of whether lightning-fast Loki could rip Bruce's lungs out through his nostrils well before his ScienceBro successfully Hulked Out--if, that was, Bruce caused one of the kids so much as a nanosecond of sorrow)--Tony decided it might be better to be safe than sorry by keeping contact limited.

Bruce still came over for dinner, or to family game nights, or movie nights (usually with a buffer of at least one other Avenger, or maybe Director-and-Clint (and giant dog), or Pepper-and-Nat, or Logan-and-Kurt.

The kids called him "Uncle Bruce" the same way they called Kurt, "Uncle Kurt." The difference being, the only stuff Bruce knew about them was stuff Tony mentioned, whereas Kurt had been their loving friend and protector since the day of their birth. The same day Bruce, it maybe should be remembered, built them an incubator, but then referred to them as "freakish" and "Loki-spawn." Ouchies.

Until that particular September day of over-packed schedules, therefore, fate had not been tempted. Tony made the exception because: A) he could reach literally no one else, and B) it was Hela he needed help with, not one of the boys. Tony suspected his much-loved daughter might well (despite having the appearance of a delicately-beautiful seven-year-old girl), have some pretty formidable lung-through-nostril removal skills of her own. Either that, or the skill to make you remove your very own lungs through your very own nostrils, and smile while doing so, up until the minute you dropped dead on the ground before her highly polished Mary Janes.

Hela's biggest problem continued to be that brilliant, powerful and grown-up as she might be inside her skin, and however fully capable she might be in terms of looking after herself, she still looked like a second grader. Unless they wanted visits from the cops and Child Protective Services, along with headlines that read "Stark's Tiny Daughter Wanders Mean Streets of New York Alone," Hela required a visible grown-up guardian when in the public eye. Her experiments with invisibility or shape-shifting to a full-fledged adult form not having (so far) proved to be entirely successful.

Hela pouted a little over her dependency on an adult escort the same way she'd pouted over Loki having firmly put the kibosh on her attempt to create a golem attendant out of spit, blood and high-grade potting soil from the terrace planter boxes.

That particular stunt cost Miss Hela all her magical abilities for a week, as well as earning her a lecture of unLokilike sternness from her usually-indulgent _Pabbi_ regarding the proper and improper uses of blood magic.

Loki also placed Hela under house arrest for the duration of her magic-free week, allowed to leave the penthouse only for school and practices, and made her incarceration even worse by creating a small and ugly golem of his own, using the same materials she'd used, and spelling it to follow Hela all over the apartment for those seven days.

Loki's little golem messed with Hela's stuff, left muddy footprints on her white bedroom carpet and pulled her elaborate Victorian frocks off their hangers while she slept, then made itself a nest in the muddle. When Hela took a bath, the imp even sat on the closed toilet seat, grimacing and muttering, until she got out of the tub.

Hela's attempts to dissolve the golem in bathwater proved futile. All she did was make the thing even muddier, something Tony wouldn't have thought possible.

Tony actually became oddly fond of the hideous little imp. He named it Torgern, and tried feeding it bits of different things as an experiment, to see if there was anything the golem would refuse. There wasn't, though its favorite snack remained Loki's fountain-pen cartridges, plastic casings and all.

He was disappointed to discover, after the seventh night, that Torgern had fallen apart into its component ingredients in the middle of Hela's white lace duvet cover. Though not as sorry as Hela turned out to be. Apparently blood, spit and high-grade potting soil weren't the easiest substances to get out of white lace, even for a young lady with significant magical abilities.

As a nice dad who loved his daughter, Tony made every effort not to laugh at her.

Given all the awkward history between his family and his best friend, Tony felt a species of undying gratitude when Bruce stepped up to do him the emergency, very-much-last-minute solid of walking Hela home the six blocks from her Manhattan Girls' Choir practice at St Pete's.

Hela had these practice sessions every Friday afternoon, Loki informed him, which came as new information to Tony. 

He’d known his daughter had an amazing voice, to go with having inherited her _Pabbi's_ vast musical abilities--she and Jöri had sung gorgeously at his and Loki's wedding, after all. He'd also known Hela belonged to the Girls' Choir, just like Jör belonged to the Boys' Choir. He hadn't even missed any of their concerts (so far) and, proud dad that he was, had even come close to enjoying what he heard, even though it wasn't exactly the kind of music he'd tune in to under normal circumstances.

Tony guessed it probably helped his attention span that his kids tended to have a lot of solos.

When it came to the wheres and whens, etc., of practices, events, and all that... such info simply didn’t compute. Not that he felt particularly proud of the fact, but his brain just refused to retain the details. He gave Loki mad props that he not only _did_ retain them, he did a flawless job of making sure everyone got to and from where they needed to be, all with appropriate clothing and supplies. But then, Loki had extensive military training and was well versed in marshaling the troops.

That in mind, Tony had been surprised when the Lokiline rang as he happened to be (reluctantly) taking a meeting with Pepper in her office. With their crazy schedules, he and Loki, if at all doable, penciled in a common "Talk to my Sweetie" time each day. Loki never, repeat _never_ called him outside of that time.

Worse still, Loki sounded exhausted, cranky and fairly close to frantic, completely unlike his usual at-work self. Teaching had turned out to be yet another of his husband's several amazing talents, and to all appearances, Loki loved his job. He certainly seemed, to Tony, to maintain a superhuman patience with his students.

Tony had tried teaching a class himself once, as a favor to a friend. He'd ended up telling his students they were all fucking idiots and walking out three-quarters of the way through the session. It had been politely suggested afterwards that teaching might not be Tony's forte.

The Engineering Department coffers would still be pleased to accept his money, however.

In return to Tony's greeting of "What's up, awesome sauce? Miss me?" he got a muffled groan.

That Loki didn't even bother to snark at being called "awesome sauce" should have been Tony's second warning that all was not well in Lokiland. The first actual words out of his husband's mouth were, "Tony, there is neither help nor hope for it! The students of Ancient Greek 101 are panicking, and I cannot escape!"

Ancient Greek was taught out of the Classics Department, not Loki's Department of Linguistics, but the original professor had suffered a stroke exactly (according to his husband) one week before. The department's usual Ancient Greek backup dude was actually _in_ Greece, on sabbatical, from which he refused to return early. Since Loki had already kindly taken 201, the first Intermediate course, off the department's hands (mostly due to the stroke-suffering prof being about as old as the language he taught, and not up for a whole heaping lot of teaching even under the best circumstances).

Classics, naturally, had rewarded Loki's generosity and willingness to pitch in by cheerfully dumping BAG 101 onto him as well.

Poor Loki got left with a ghastly schedule, totally overburdened. Someday (hopefully) he might actually learn to say no when people asked him to do stuff that would ultimately make him crazy. Unfortunately, though, his days of shirking responsibilities (even ones that weren't really his) had far from arrived. Director had scared the shit out of him, and despite all Tony's assurances, Loki wasn't going to be caught slacking.

Tony suspected that his husband retained a terror of running afoul either of that or some other unspoken Midgardian rule. Although Loki's health had improved by leaps and bounds in the months since their wedding, the guy still had a young family (and a perpetually needy husband) at home, he was still a ways from being either pain-free or a hundred percent there stamina-wise, and put together with his community service work and the push to complete his second novel, the strain had started to tell on him in lots of little ways.

Tony hated to see Loki going sleepless (the playing of sad lute songs on the terrace at two A.M. was never a good sign), and getting down on himself, practically drowning in self-hatred with every tiny mistake he made. Honestly, who wouldn't flub up every now and then, with all that shit going on? Tony himself would have cracked like Humpty-Dumpty within about a day.

Months later, the events in Wales still haunted Loki, Tony knew. Of course they did. Haunted both of them, really, though they showed it in different ways. Loki played his sad, sad music, suffered from terrible--or, sometimes, heartbreakingly poignant--dreams, overworked himself, and took a pretty much daily ride on the self-blame express.

Tony had bad dreams too (Loki comforting him with the greatest possible sweetness when he woke up in distress). He also found "humorous" comments creeping back into his conversation, especially when it came to his poor husband, who remained patience itself in return.

Tony asked himself over and over if he'd forgotten the lesson Myrddin (aka Merlin, yes, _that_ Merlin), mythical sorcerer and Loki's first love, had reached out furiously from beyond the (kinda-sorta) grave to teach him. You'd think being magic-zapped with actual razor-cuts in his actual tongue for acting like a dick toward Loki would have had a lasting impact. You'd think.

Apparently not enough of an impact, though, because it didn't seem to stop him now.

Tony didn't like to mention it, to Loki or anyone, but he had a constant crawly, itchy sensation in the back of his head, making him feel like he was balancing on the edge of some crazy-high place. Once he even dreamed that his head was stuffed full of centipedes, and woke up shrieking.

Often he dreamed there was something he could have done, or not done, to save Wilhelm, their beautiful little boy. Something, but he didn't know what it could have been.

Tony’s brain seemed stuffed full of maybes, also: maybe if he'd stopped Loki from going overseas in the first place (and thereby dooming how many innocent people to death by dragon-fire?); maybe if he'd gone with Loki on his commercial flight (like whatever evil fuck had arranged to get Loki sick wouldn't have had a contingency plan to cover that possibility?); maybe if he'd called ahead to verify arrangements for the StarkJet, including the steward's name, then gotten them both the hell out at the first sign of trouble (like he ever would have done that, when he'd never micro-managed anything in his whole life).

Speaking of self-blame... Being Tony-fuckin'-Stark, he of course couldn't leave anything well enough alone, and so he did a swan-dive into the perilous deep end of old, destructive habits.

He drank, it might be said, to excess. Like drinking ever helped. Like drinking ever helped anything.

_STOP!_ Tony kept telling himself. _Don't be an asshole. Look what you have to lose. Surrender, Dorothy! I’d Turn Back If I Was You!_

Only he didn't stop. He never stopped. He just stumbled on and on and on through that metaphorical haunted wood, getting more and more lost. Hoping Loki would know it wasn't his fault, it was just that he'd married a self-obsessed, inconsiderate jerk.

Tony honestly didn't know how Loki put up with him these days. Sometimes even he didn't want to be around himself, and for someone with his ego, that was really saying something.

And the centipedes kept scritching and scratching around inside his brain.  Bruce claimed they were actually bees, bees that kept humming at him, but Tony knew better.

They were centipedes. Definitely centipedes.

Adding to Loki's own non-personal troubles--and returning to the topic of Ancient Greek--the original prof must surely have had undetected symptoms beforehand, arteries in dire need of Drano or something, because the language he'd been teaching his class (according to Loki, and not in his words) appeared to be the long-extinct Tongue of Bizarroland (Loki's more tactful, though still-horrified, phrase was "the speech of quite another Realm indeed").

The poor newbie students had dutifully learned these bassackward lessons, and now, with Loki's guidance, had to get all the wrong stuff unstuck from their heads before midterms rolled over their sad, unprepared selves like so many giant runaway boulders, just like the huge one that had threatened Indiana Jones. Thus the phrase, "sometimes it's harder to unlearn than to learn," and Loki's greatly-expanded office hours, to go with his greatly-expanded teaching hours.

Unlike his husband, Lok had a strong responsible side that sometimes went to war with his temptation to make mischief of one kind or another.

Instead of calling his recently-inherited students "fucking idiots," he actually cared about whether they did well. He also seemed to labor under the sad delusion that every night those kids diligently went home and hit the books, instead of hooking up with random romantic partners and pouring beer down their throats using funnels and hoses.

Though maybe Loki merely would have said, "Oh, truly? In the manner of Volstagg?" With Loki, you just never knew.

Or maybe kids who studied ancient dead languages were different from engineers.

For Tony's own part, on the day of Bruce's story, the meeting in Pep's office turned out to be a carefully-sprung trap. Pepper even threatened to zip-tie him to his chair if he made the slightest move toward escape, making it clear that he would not be allowed to leave, under any circumstances or for any reason, until he'd signed each and every last piece of (to him) meaningless paperwork in the known universe.

To Pepper herself, Tony suspected those pieces of paper were pretty damn meaningful or, being an understanding kind of person, she wouldn't have forced his attention. As one of the few who knew about certain events in Wales, she'd been unfailingly kind, both to Loki and himself, but the poor woman still had a business to run.

She'd also known Tony couldn't in good conscience ditch her, the way he continually ditched his long-suffering P.A., not with their history.

He'd always known he'd been perfectly right to love Pepper, he'd just tried to love her in the wrong way. She and Natasha worked, odd as that had once seemed. They brought happiness to each other, and mutual support. They made each other glowy, and that was a good thing to see.

A brave, warm, loving person like Pepper ought to glow, not be constantly wanting to bash someone like him over the head with a stapler, or whatever other heavy object lay close at hand, because he just couldn't stop being an asshat. Pep had too much self-esteem in the long run to live like that.

Enter Loki, equally brave, warm and loving but so, so deeply, fundamentally damaged Tony would have had to pursue his asshattery on a truly cosmic scale for it to even blip his husband's radar.

Which wasn't to say Tony didn't have the potential to achieve that scale, only that it wasn’t easy to compete for the title of Universe's Crappiest Being with a dad who'd actually burn off his own son's face with acid. Over a two hundred year period.

It gave him a lot of leeway, that was for sure. Probably leeway he didn’t deserve to be given.

Once, in bed, Loki had Tony feel the satiny skin on the inside of his wrist, then on his cheek. "Once they were the same, now they are different," he'd said softly, simply. His cheek felt like a baby's, poreless, hairless, just like his body---a token of his _Jötunn_ heritage. Had he been full-blooded _Jötunn_ , like one of his biological parents, he'd have also lacked brows, lashes and those luscious thick, black curls that nightly spilled across their pillows.

On the rare occasion Loki let himself go blue, Tony always found the sight of Loki's graceful horns spiraling out of those rampant curls an incredible turn-on. He'd hold the image in his head sometimes when they made love, and feel like he was fucking a wild god of ancient days.

Which, okay, yeah, he actually was. For real. Which, if anything, made their times of getting physical even more erotic.

Loki always proved to be, up to a certain point, tender and slow in his loving. Beyond that point, reef the sails and batten the hatches, boys, there's a hard wind from the north! Bruises had been observed.

Afterward, Loki would kiss and lick them. Loki's tongue, even without the rest of his uber-sexy self attached, should have been arrested for obscenity. Tony had been known to full-on come just from Loki kissing him, and the light pressure of Loki's hand against his thigh---which, gods, he wasn't sixteen, he was staring fifty hard in the face. No little blue pills required for him, though, ladies and gentlemen!

Myrddin had also taught him, so Loki said, some very, very naughty (read: delightful) things, for which Tony could almost forgive the dude for having cut his tongue and made him experience first-hand Loki's horrible early youth, including childbirth. Only not really.

"You!" Pepper rapped him sharply on the head with a pen. A heavy pen.

"Ouch!" Tony protested, rubbing the spot.

"Any more naughty dreams on my watch, when I'm trying to make you step up to the plate and do your damn job, and it won't be your ankles and wrists I zip tie."

"You wouldn't," Tony told her.

"Try me," Pep answered grimly. "Read. Sign. Pay attention."

Tony recalled that he was supposed to have taken care of the paperwork weeks before, except paperwork was always less fun than welding. Or playing ScienceBros. Or general fucking-offery. So he hadn't. Which was childish and irresponsible, even for him.

The moment Pepper set him free from his captivity, and he'd scurried off to safety, Tony found he had a new problem to deal with, in the form of a deeply-spooked Bruce.

"Buddy," Tony said sympathetically to the badly-shaken physicist on his couch. "What's up? You didn't...?"

Hela, out of her school uniform and into one her black velvet Victorian-ancestor-of-Wednesday-Addams specials, popped out of her room.

She scampered over, kissed Tony's cheek with a bright, "Welcome home, Dad!" and swanned off to her room again. "Swanned" being the perfect verb where Hela was concerned. Loki could also be quite the swanner, now and then.

"Hulk out? No." Bruce shuddered.

"It was one of those things, you know?" his ScienceBro finally told Tony, after an extended period of silence.

Bruce still looked way more than slightly crazed around the eyes, which wasn't really like him, at least not when those eyes weren't also turning a certain scary shade of green.

"Like watching a train wreck? You want to look away but... Oh, no! Aarggh! Crash! Mayhem and carnage! You can't. You just... can't."

"Hey, before I forget, thanks for answering my desperate call and walking the Empress, bro," Tony said. "It's been one of those days, for both Lok and me, when we got totally time-sucked. Or when life just sucked. Probably both. Anyway, you, buddy, were a fucking life-saver."

With a giant, melodramatic sigh, Tony scooched himself a little deeper into the couch cushions. Bruce appeared equally relaxed---or maybe they word he wanted was boneless---and also still more than slightly in shock.

"See, I can be trusted," Bruce said after a minute.

Tony looked at him sideways, not turning his head.

"No one said you couldn't, Bruce."

"I don't take my frustrations out on kids."

"God, I know that!" Tony answered, shocked, knowing what Bruce was really saying, which was, _I'm not my dad._

"Everyone knows that," Tony insisted. "Everyone. Nobody thinks you're anything like... uh... Voldemort."

"He Who Must Not Be Named." Bruce gave a tight, twisted little non-laugh. When he glanced up his eyes were more hazel than brown. The greenish side of hazel.

"Bruce, do you need...?" Tony began.

Bruce gave a kind of long, sighing shudder, shaking himself at the end like a bear coming out of a cold lake.

"And so...?" Tony prompted, after their mutual silence began to stretch out again. He needed the story to continue, though he wasn't exactly sure why. He had a feeling, just a tingle of random weirdness to come, but he still needed to know.

He was interrupted by the beep-beep-buh-boop of Loki's keycode in the lock, then the door swung open.

"And here you are, my dear friend!" boomed a giant Scandinavian voice, closely followed by the giant Scandinavian it belonged to, the only man alive who made Thor look like a tiny, fragile twigling. Oh joy. If it wasn't the repetitively-named Prof. Nels Lars Nelson of the Department of Scandinavian Studies.

"Fuck," Tony muttered, not exactly under his breath. He continued not to be any kind fan of the dude, partly because Nelson was consistently so goddamn LOUD (Tony wondered how Loki, with his hyper-sensitive bat-ear hearing, could stand to spend five minutes in a room with the guy), partly because Prof. Nelson hadn’t put any kind of brakes on continually dragging Loki in to "consult" or "give a second opinion on his translation" (reference Loki's already crazy workload).

By the door, Loki and Nelson hugged, Tony's personal god a fragile black wisp engulfed in the arms of the blond-going-silver-haired cave bear.

Just for a second, which was a second too long, Tony was reminded, stomach-twistingly, of his husband's huge, blond, sometime-brother Baldr. For much, much longer than a second, Tony longed to summon his nearest suit and punch Professor Nels Lars Nelson as hard as he possibly could in his big Norwegian piehole. He held back only because he suspected Loki, with his impeccable manners and unbending rules about the proper treatment of guests, might not approve of his actions.

"Good evening to you now, Loki. Be well!" Nelson boomed.

On distant mountains, devastating avalanches took out entire villages. Yeah, that loud.

"My most sincere thanks, Nels Lars," Loki returned, with weary, though warm, politeness. "It was a great boon that you returned me unto the tower. Farewell until Monday, dear friend."

Giving Loki a look like he intended to eat him up whole, the giant raised his hand to say goodbye in return. Loki shut the door gently behind him, leaning against it briefly before he shuffled into the penthouse, almost dragging his high-style messenger bag and somehow managing to look both like the cover of GQ, in his fantastically well-fitted suit (courtesy of the genius Mr. Pierre), and a lot like the train wreck Bruce had earlier referenced.

"Hard day at the office, dear?" Bruce quipped.

Loki didn't even bother to look at him. He had a bulky bandage around his right hand, and either that or extreme tiredness seemed to be making him clumsy. He abandoned the bag halfway in, flung himself down on the couch, then slumped over right onto Tony. He was in no way at his usual frosty-cool best.

"Students get on your last nerve?" Tony asked, trying to sound sympathetic, though he kind of wanted to laugh. Maybe it was his total joy that Nelson had actually fucked off home (or wherever Viking cave bears went to after work), maybe it was Loki being dramatic, with his flinging and slumping, which tended to become slightly giggle-worthy, even when Tony forced himself to keep those giggles to himself.

Unfortunately for Loki--and Tony's decorum--he was just so damn tall and slender, with those long, long arms and legs, that every move could seem exaggerated. Tony couldn't help it. It got funny sometimes.

“What happened with your hand?” he asked, but Loki didn’t seem to hear.

"Even given the circumstances, they make things infinitely more difficult for themselves than is needed," Loki sighed, presumably referring to the Lost Students of Ancient Greek. His voice was husky, on its way to hoarse.

He flopped his head onto Tony's shoulder.

"Have the children returned safely to home, _hjarta minn_?"

"That performance was almost telenovela-worthy in its patheticness," Bruce remarked. "I'm impressed."

Loki apparently lacked the energy to glare.

"I give greeting to you also, Dr. Banner," he responded. Ah, there was a touch of that expected ice.

"I wondered," Bruce said, "Do you actually teach your classes with that vocabulary? Is your Ancient Greek, uh, equally unique? Because that might just explain your students' difficulties."

"Bruce," Tony cautioned, close to shocked. "There's backstory." The desire to laugh left him.

"My Ancient Greek remains impeccable. As always." Loki said, slumping down further, almost burrowing into Tony's chest.

"I have learned, beloved," he remarked, "That trolls no longer remain solely inhabitant to the Northlands of Europe, or to reaches of Minnesota and the upper Pacific Northwest. They also infest the internets and..." Loki narrowed one cold green eye at Bruce. "Also the overstuffed chairs of my family's common living area. The wisdom remains true, I suppose, even now, that one ought not to feed them."

Tony couldn't help but chuckle a little at that one. Even Bruce grinned, shaking his head.

Loki, meanwhile, groaned softly, pressing his face into Tony's shirt to stifle the sound---he felt it more as a vibration than an actual noise.

"You okay, babe?" Tony gently rubbed the back of Loki's neck with his fingertips, which usually made his husband purr like a kitten. This time he just slumped there, and his skin felt warm even by human standards.

"You seem kinda life-sucked this P.M."

"My testicles hurt, Tony," Loki overshared. "And feel most odd. They may be enlarged."

Tony wasn't quite sure how to respond. "I'm sorry?" "Yuck?" "TMI?" He settled for stroking his fingertips lovingly over Loki's cheek, along his jaw, down his throat.

"Ow! Ow!" Loki said crossly, "That hurts also." He raised a graceful hand to his neck. "It is not fair, Tony! It is not fair! My throat is not only sore on the inside but bloated on the outside as well. I shall soon be hideous as a bullfrog!"

_I always liked bullfrogs_ , Tony thought of remarking, but didn't.

Instead he said, "Let's see, babe."

Loki had a point, Tony discovered when he checked---the swelling might not have been, realistically, anywhere near bullfrog-level, but his husband's throat was also clearly not its usual delicately slender self. Up beneath his jawline it looked and felt like he had a good couple clip-fulls of bullets implanted under his pale skin.

Bruce ambled over to palpate Loki's neck too, and at least he appeared to be both thorough and gentle.

Loki's eyes fixed warily on Bruce's face, clearly worried about letting Bruce touch him, but not making a peep.

"And the diagnosis is?” Tony asked, trying to sound a little off-handed about the whole thing, maybe even a little humorous. He realized that he felt nervous too, because every interaction between Loki and Bruce felt like balancing on a highwire.

He knew ought to come down firmly as Team Loki, but…

He’d been lonely for a long time, and he’d never had a friend like Bruce. Loki also tended to be incredibly protective of Tony's relationship with his best friend, clearly bound and determined not to be the one who came between them, ever.

"My diagnosis is,” Bruce said, “That you’d better call your bullfrog self out sick from work for the next five days or so, my friend. It looks like you have the mumps. Weirdest damn mumps I've ever felt, but mumps. Which is another of those childhood diseases you couldn't possibly catch because of your godlike constitution--just like the measles and the chicken pox you had to be immune to for the same reason. Clint wins the pool yet again."

"Bruce," Tony snapped, even more harshly than he intended--and, this time, that was pretty damn harshly.

The measles his husband had come down with in London--the measles Loki had deliberately been given by some crappy-ass bastard who snuck onto the StarkJet pretending to be their steward--went beyond a sore spot into something Tony's husband probably wouldn't have the resources, mental or physical, to deal with for a long, long time.

Loki sucked in a breath so hard and fast he threw himself into a coughing fit, hacking painfully into his crooked elbow while simultaneously clutching at his tortured throat.

"Someone... Someone..." he gasped between coughs.

Tony rubbed his back. "It's okay, babe, ssh, it's okay."

He forced himself to say to Bruce as mildly as he could. "Maybe dial that stuff back a notch, bro? He doesn't feel good."

"Well," said Loki faintly, gesturing in a limp-noodle kind of way with his bandaged hand. "I don't feel well. Some cruel being has again done has done this to me, Tony! Again! It is not fair! How am I meant to tolerate another such occurrence?"

Loki sounded devastated, and he'd started shaking, probably with nothing more or less than suppressed total fury. "To know, once more, that I have been so afflicted, yet know not why or how? I cannot even recall an instance..."

"Yeah, Loki," Bruce interrupted. "I'm sure the world conspired to give you mumps. You couldn't possibly catch it on the subway, or at school, or off a deli counter, like a regular person. You're just too damn special."

"Why must you be ever hateful to me, Dr. Banner," Loki asked in a small tense voice, still shaking and nothing at all like himself. "I never fail to be courteous to you? How have I caused you injury?"

Loki's face lost several shades of color suddenly, going from white to deadest white.

"Oh, I dunno..." Bruce answered. Tony hadn't ever seen his face look cruel before, but this time it did. The expression made him not even look like Bruce—maybe like the anti-Bruce--and his normally warm brown eyes had gone--not green--but glassy and hard. "Maybe it's because I got to treat a bunch of the people your oh-so-special kingly self mangled the first time you visited the Big Apple?"

For a full minute, Loki sat absolutely frozen, not even breathing. Deer in the headlights didn't begin to cover the look on his face.

"Yes," he finally said, quietly. His skin had by then gone on all the way to weirdly-transparent gray. "Yes, I see. Please pardon me, as I am... I am unwell."

He rose, looking somehow elegant and nauseated (or maybe just monumentally freaked out) at the same time, and shot down the hall.

Tony sincerely hoped all that was going on with his husband was an upset stomach, not a major emotional meltdown. Loki didn't need reminders of anything awful at the moment. Getting up each morning was hard enough for him sometimes, making it through a day, beginning to end, often nearly fucking impossible.

Something he himself was really helping with at the moment.

For a second, Tony had to press his fingertips into his eyes, trying to force away the image of his husband writhing on an Iron Age altar, half a kilometer underground, out of his head with pain. It took a minute more before he was able to look at Bruce again.

"Tone?" Bruce said. At least he had the decency to appear uncomfortable. Tony wished, not exactly for the first time, that he lived in a reality where his best friend didn't loathe his husband.

Loki's best friend, Kurt, Official Nicest Person on Earth, treated Tony exactly like a loving younger brother might have, if he’d ever had a brother. Even with an awareness of Tony's sins, he never failed to be warm, kind and supportive.

Of course, Kurt fully qualified for sainthood. Pope Francis probably had him as #02 on speed-dial (his Boss, allegedly upstairs, being #01) for when he wanted sounder moral advice than any other living person on the planet could give.

But Bruce—and this bore repeating--was a really good guy, too, in every situation but this. He just couldn’t manage to hide how much he despised Loki, and the amount of slack he seemed willing to cut him, under this or any other circumstance, added up to exactly zero.


	3. When One Door Closes...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce finally tells his story.
> 
> There's some recapping of previous events in this chapter, and with it some discussion of difficult and possibly triggery topics. There's also the accidental death of a small animal. None of the above is discussed in detail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "hindsight is 20/20"=it's easy to have perfect vision when we look at things that have already happened
> 
> The Icelandic name of Hela's company, " _Spellwerki_ " translates as "inspiration" or "creativity."
> 
>  _Book Moda Uomo_ is an Italian men's fashion periodical.
> 
> " _That one day this nation will rise up..._ " Smartass Tony is quoting Martin Luther King, Jr.'s "I Have a Dream" Speech. 
> 
> Barnes & Noble has existed under that name since 1917.
> 
> Obie=Obadiah Stane (portrayed in the first _Iron Man_ film by Jeff Bridges) is the President and CEO of weapons manufacturer Stane International and a former business partner of that outstanding family man, Howard Stark. His main weapon (other than the Iron Monger suit) is psychological manipulation, and he may well be the slimiest honorary uncle in the history of honorary uncles. 
> 
> Robert A. Heinlein, the "Dean of Science Fiction," published an impressive 32 novels, 59 short stories, and 16 collections.
> 
> The Fields Medal, sometimes described of the mathematics equivalent of the Nobel Prize, is awarded to 2 -4 young (under 40) mathematicians every 4 years.
> 
> In Sergei Prokofiev's 1936 "symphonic fairy tale for children" _Peter and the Wolf_ , each of the main characters has a particular instrument that serves as its "voice." The oboe is the voice of the duck.

* * *

"I should probably..." Tony said after a few minutes of awkward silence.

"Sure," Bruce answered, with a biting-extra-sour-and-possibly-even-bitter lemons kind of look on his face. "If you think he can't wipe his own ass without you."

"What's that supposed to mean, bro?" Tony snapped.

"That he's not going to acclimatize, Tony, if you keep holding his hand."

 _What the actual fuck?_ Tony thought.

"You know what, Bruce?" Tony filled a refillable glass water bottle from the filter in the fridge, then paused, leaning on the kitchen island, practicing a few minutes of ultra-deep breathing to prevent himself from exploding all over everything, his ScienceBro in particular.

"I actually will continue to hold Loki's hand, because he's my husband and he holds mine in return just as often. And okay, best friend o' mine, explain to me what you think he's supposed to be doing to live up to your exacting standards?"

"Uh... stuff," Bruce answered, in the most sarcastic voice Tony had ever heard from his friend, a voice that didn't sound anything like the Bruce he knew and loved.

"How's this, then, for 'stuff?'" Tony retorted. "Loki checks in with Coulson twice a week. Except for the trip to the U.K., which was a whole immigration thing, he hasn't missed a minute of either work or his community service. Even right before the wedding when he felt like shit and had a temp of 103, he still telecommuted to all but two of his classes, and he would have caught those if he'd been well enough to remain actually conscious. His performance reviews have been stellar. He's taken over one of my committees for Pep and a couple for his department head at NYU---and taken on that Greek class for a sick colleague, which he didn't have to do--along with an intermediate class, and yet another one next quarter--and it's not actually even his department. He's written two books and become a successful artist. He's making friends in the community---hell, his supervisor at Boys and Guys Club, and his wife, have practically adopted him, the kids there adore him, and even his students have him rated as one of the top five professors at NYU. He's sweet as hell and charming to absolutely fucking everyone--including you, you cranky bastard. Plus, he's the most amazing parent in the history of ever. Oh, and the food poisoning I got from that crappy-ass take-out-of-death you brought into the lab last Wednesday, Mr. Me-Hulk-Me-Don't-Get-Sick..."

"That's not Hulk, that's the Cookie Monster," Bruce said, when Tony paused in his rant for breath--but he wasn't laughing.

"Ha-fucking-ha. Anyway, Loki couldn't stand to see me suffer from that, and he healed me. And where'd you get that shit from, by the way? The dumpster out back? It was goddamn toxic, bro. I tested it."

"But Loki's not supposed to... He's too..." Bruce began. For a second, something that almost could have passed as concern crossed his face.

"Yeah, don't I know it. Especially since..." Tony realized he was scowling fiercely, but couldn't stop himself.

He wasn't going to let it out, though. He wasn't.

He still couldn't let his thoughts stray anywhere near that tiny might-have-been-person John Watson had to cut out through Loki's back, not without wanting to tear up (which was a face-saving way of saying, "explode into a major crying jag"). That precious might-have-been-person who was his and Loki's son.

"Wilhelm," Loki had called him. Wilhelm, for the gods' sakes--it seemed like such a sweet name now. Adorable Wilhelm, as he'd seen him just once--in a dream, or vision, or visitation, or epic episode of wishful thinking--with his big brothers, Narfi and Vali, on the Island of the Ever-Young. His darling, radiant boy, on the beach at sunset, skipping stones... So infinitesimal in real life, and perfect, and beautiful, killed by a stupid childhood illness no one had any reason in the world to think Loki would even pick up.

Why would he? For one thing, Loki was, indisputably, an actual from-another-planet (or dimension, or Realm or whatever the hell Asgard actually was—maybe all or none of the above) alien. For another, measles was supposedly eradicated in the U.S. all the way back in the year 2000.

Tony laid that one straight at Doom's door. Doom or whatever evil fucker--maybe also Doom, if Minister Mycroft Holmes was correct in his suppositions--had wanted Loki to get sick, with that weird imposter steward on the StarkJet, and the scratch that didn't seem like anything--at first.

"Tone, you're kinda scaring me," Bruce said. "That expression? Just a little too intense, maybe?"

Tony couldn't talk about the real awful thing, so he gave his friend a different one.

"His eyeballs bled when he healed me, Bruce. Not just his nose, we're used to that--his fucking eyeballs. So thanks very much for mocking his sunglasses the next day. He was not 'Going Rock Star,' you asshole, he was trying not to freak out our kids."

"I didn't know," Bruce said. He looked semi-horrified. "I didn't know that happened."

"Man, I love you, I really, truly do, but there's a lot you don't know. Loki is... He's better, lots better, but even now he's not super well, Bruce, and I don't mean the mumps, I mean in general. Physically, yeah, but emotionally, too. Actually, you name it, he's in pain. A lot of pain. I know you don't really care what happened to him in Latveria, or with S.H.I.E.L.D, or in Britain, or anything. Maybe you really do enjoy the human-yet-shitty satisfaction of _Schadenfreude_ , and you're even glad to see him suffer--which, by the way, gotta tell ya, buddy, really is pretty fucking unworthy of you. You're a better man than that, y'know? "

Tony ran a hand back through his hair, messing it up even more than usual.

"But if that's the case, well, rest assured, you're already getting your fucking wish. And now I've gotta go find my husband, because that's what people do. Stick around if you want. I'll probably be back in a few. Lok usually just wants to drop right off to sleep when he's sick."

Tony left. He discovered Loki in the bedroom, slumped on the edge of the bed, his shirt unbuttoned but not off. It was one of his beautiful, dark-green raw silk shirts, perfectly fitted (again courtesy of Mr. Pierre) and not the easiest thing to peel off of feverish skin.

"Is it not permitted that I choose my words and speak as I would in my own home?" Loki rubbed his fingertips brutally into his eyes. "Do I appear exceptionally foolish to all?"

"No, babe. I, for one, love your words," Tony said, handing him the water-bottle. "I love you, my darling, and you're not foolish. You're never foolish. You're the wisest person I know."

"Kurt is much wiser than I, always." Loki drank thirstily from the bottle. "But still, I thank you, Tony."

"No problem, babe. I think we really, really should have been realistic about your fucked-up immunity and had you get the shots when the kids did. Or had Hank come up with something that worked for you if the normal ones wouldn't. Maybe hindsight is 20/20, as they say."

"Who says that?"

"I guess it's, uh, like, a proverb."

"Very well. I shall have the rest of the injections--or whatever measures Hank deems wise--as soon as it is possible. I assume there are at least another dozen scourges lying in wait for me in this plague-hole of Midgard."

"How about I pass on that request to Dr. McCoy, but we leave out the words 'scourge' and 'plague-hole?'"

"You need not. I shall text him," Loki said. "With the omissions stated."

He sat quietly for a while, head bowed, looking too exhausted to move.

"Tony?" Finally, Loki slowly and painfully shrugged out of his shirt, then sat with it bunched up in his hands. "This 'mumps' is another virus, yes? Why is it I only seem to become ill with viruses, if this was not given me deliberately, as Bruce says? Why was I given the measles by the false steward?"

He kicked out of his shoes, letting the shirt slip disregarded from his grip.

"I guess they're common, easy to get regardless of evil intent, and you really do have zilch in the way of immunity, my poor love. You actually think this is something somebody did to you, or...?"

"I know not." Loki pressed his fingertips, hard, to his temples. "Oh, Tony, my head pounds so I can scarcely think. And I know not."

Tony noticed how badly Loki's hands were shaking and came close to help him with his belt.

"And how come, on a totally off-topic topic, I'm the billionaire and you're the one with the truly killer accessories? How do I get a belt like this?"

Tony freed it gently from Loki's belt loops. The reverse side was printed with the words, _Spellwerki_ : New York. He'd never heard of the company.

"I'm semi-seriously telling you, Lok, with all my love and knowing you totally know better, but you had best not be squandering magic on anything like this."

"What do you take me for? It is, of course, one of Hela's creations, as fabricated by her Women of Battery who seek for themselves a new start in life, and now available in several high-end stores throughout New York. Ask her!" Loki snapped, and if he hadn’t, as he said, used magic for anything else, he sure as hell did use magic to move himself to the far side of the bed, clearly not even realizing in his distress that he'd done so.

Turning his back to Tony, he angrily stripped off his trousers and boxer-briefs, managing to thoroughly lose his balance in the process, and hit the floor hard on his elegant ass. He groaned, one long, low note of pure agony.

It was obviously no time to hold a grudge.

Tony scurried over the top of the bed, dropping down beside his husband on the carpet. "Babe, what is it? You okay?"

"Oh, Tony! Oh, Tony!" Loki moaned, both hands spread across his downstairs area, as if he could somehow manually contain what looked to be some significant hurting. "Husband, by the Nine, I am deformed," Loki breathed, when he could talk again. He touched himself gingerly.

"Jesus Christ, they're like navel oranges! That's fucking insane!" Tony exclaimed, then realized that was the opposite of what Loki needed to hear. Midgard was doing weird and unexpected things to him, yet again. He needed reassurance, not to feel like a freak.

Tony wrapped his arms around his husband's slender body--and damn, but it looked and felt as if Loki, having gotten over his some-time-past pregnancy-induced willingness to consume actual food, might have dropped more than just a few pounds again. After all this time, the long and slightly ragged-looking scar on his lower back had healed, but still appeared angrily red against Loki's white skin.

Tony held him gently and close. "This is a really, really temporary thing, Lok. Five days or so and you'll be back to completely normal. I promise." He kissed Loki's shoulder. "You're always unbelievably fucking gorgeous to me, by the way."

"Yet, meanwhile, I have giant orange-balls. It is undignified." Loki sniffed, and pushed himself up against the bed, slipping past Tony to rummage in the dresser drawers for a t-shirt and sweats. He got on the shirt without incident, but nearly fell over again trying to put on the pants.

Tony made it there just in time to steady him.

"I hate to feel ill!" Loki spat. "And I shall not neglect my work for such a foolish reason! I shall not call my 'bullfrog self' in sick, as your most-unkind friend says."

"Taking care of yourself when you're sick isn't exactly a foolish reason, sweetheart, but if you insist, at least you have the next couple days to start getting better. Just curl up in bed all weekend. I promise the kids and I will wait on you hand and foot and spoil you silly."

Tony peeled back the covers and steered Loki into the bed, covering him over tenderly--he was already half asleep. "Can I get you some Tylenol or anything, babe?"

"I dislike to take tablets," Loki mumbled grumpily, eyes closed.

"Which in Loki-speak really means your tummy's still upset and you don't want to chance it? Can I interest you in a ginger ale, then?"

"I attempted to drink one at the university when my stomach first felt doubtful. The bubbles and the sweetness both caused much pain in my throat. I shall confine myself to the drinking of water and tea for the present time."

Loki turned toward the middle of the bed, huddling beneath the covers with his back to Tony. "Be aware, please, my husband, that you need not defend me against your friend."

"Oh, yeah?" Tony perched on the edge of the low bed, leaning forward to kiss the hot skin behind Loki's ear, to nuzzle in his curls. "I'm afraid, however, loverman, you may be forced to see me do exactly that. Honestly, enough is enough. Bruce doesn't need to make you feel worse when you're already feeling bad, that's for damn sure."

"Well, be aware that you need not."

"Are you actually mad at me, or do you just really, really feel like crap, Lok?"

After a minute or so, Loki sighed. "Alas, the latter, I fear. Please forgive me, _hjarta minn_ , for taking out my impatience with my health upon you. I feel frightened and sad. Also most terribly uncomfortable, yet it remains that it was unjust of me to do so, and I am ashamed."

"No need," Tony said. "You know what a shithead I am when I don't feel good--what a shithead I am even when I do feel good--and yet you're always so sweet to me, best husband in the world. Please let me make at least a partial repayment, now and then. And I do realize, Lok, that I haven't treated you right lately. Speaking of feeling ashamed."

"You are good. Very good," Loki murmured drowsily. "It is only the wicked influence, I know, of your Ghost in the Wall."

 _Well, that was random_ , Tony thought. Was Loki actually already asleep, and dreaming?

"I'll check back soon, then, and bring you some of that ginger tea you like. Love you, Lok."

"Love you," Loki's lips formed, though really he was already asleep.

Tony collected his clothes for the cleaners and the laundry, kissed his husband's forehead and switched off the light as he left.

He wondered for a second what Loki had been driving at with his questions about viruses--was it typical Loki randomness or equally-typical Loki brilliance? Did he see a von Doom (or other) connection, like Minister Mycroft? What, too, exactly, was his husband using magic on, but didn't want Tony to be aware? And what in hell--unless Loki was dreaming, or hallucinating, or something--had he meant by "your Ghost in the Wall?"

He found Bruce leafing through Loki's current issue of _Book Moda Uomo_ in the living room. "Four thousand dollars for what amounts to a Henley shirt. Four thousand! Damn, Tony, do you support that?"

"Jesus, Bruce, he just likes to look at the pictures. He enjoys fashion. Fashion shows. That shit. He's not exactly the only style-conscious guy on the planet. If I was also a zillion feet tall and had his looks, I'd probably be into it too, and our daughter's equally addicted. Thank God the boys are just heavy into Lego. Though, come to think of it, after utilities, Lego products may well be our greatest household expense. I should buy stock, or take over the company, or something. What d'ya think of the name 'StarkBlocks?'"

"I think I like the name 'Lego,' you flaming narcissist," Bruce laughed.

Tony ambled to the bar, helping himself to a double Glenmorangie, four years older than he was and smooth as smoky satin. "Want anything, bro?"

"Orange juice? You know you're a good-looking guy too, Tony. You could have anybody. Anybody you wanted, that is."

"And you are also a very, very beautiful man, Bruce. Wanna share an awkward bro-hug?" Laughing, Tony poured a big glass of juice and put it in Bruce's hand, grinning evilly as his friend laughed too.

They sprawled on opposite ends of the couch, sipping, the warmth pooling in Tony's stomach.

"Sorry I bit your head off before, by the way," Tony said after a little of the mellow kicked in. "But, just so you know, I don't buy Loki's stuff for him. Any of it. Ever. I'd like to. I'd buy him every last four thousand dollar Henley in the world if he wanted, but he'd die a thousand painful deaths before he let me. After Britain he even fucking calculated fuel costs and wear-and-tear on the StarkJet, the steward's and pilots' salaries, their expenses in London and our stay at the Savoy, and reimbursed me every damn penny. He buys all his own things, all the kids' things--clothes, school fees, lessons, insurance, food, incidentals, the whole shebang. And we're talking for the entire penthouse, too--cleaning staff, Mrs. Ransome, supplies, everything. He had Pepper advise him on setting up a program where he tracks each dime and has it automatically debited out of his checks. He even has some sort of elaborate barter system set up for those high-stylin' clothes of his, I think. He's also contributed a ton to the Manhattan Restoration Fund. And Special Olympics."

"Out of a professor's salary?" Bruce raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"My baby has probably the two best-reviewed books in their genres so far this year, Bruce. They're already saying he might be up for both the Newberry and the Caldecott awards. Being completely clueless, I looked those up, and in the book world they're a fucking big deal, like the Oscars of writing and the Oscars of illustration, a real double-threat. If nothing else, all the libraries in the U.S. of A., if not the literate world, have ordered a bazillion copies, and I guarantee, even as we speak, every book-loving teenager, geek and nerd has a copy of _Sons of Asgard_ on his or her shelf, e-reader or Pad. Even for me, the sales numbers are staggering. You know I'm not easily staggered, my friend. Let's not even mention the film rights negotiations he's got going. Wanna know who took us to dinner last week?"

"I'll bite," Bruce said.

"Peter-fucking-Jackson, that's who. And this guy, Bob Shaye, from New Line Cinema. The names may sound familiar."

"Huh," Bruce said.

"Have you read them, Loki's books?" Tony asked.

For a long time, silent, they watched each other's faces.

"Yeah," Bruce said, finally. "I have."

"And?"

"Your husband gives me cognitive dissonance."

It was Tony's turn to raise an eyebrow.

"’Cause they're beautiful. Really beautiful. Like, Fen's Book--you can see it as just being about an imaginative little boy playing make believe in the woods behind his house. Or you can see it being about Fen--the real Fen, and kids like him, what a rich world they might have inside their heads, that nobody else can reach, or tries to reach..."

"Only Loki does. He totally does."

"Yeah, you got me there, Tone. And _Sons of Asgard_... I know it's being called 'The Next Harry Potter,' because something's always being called 'The Next Harry Potter,' and it kind of is, but it isn't, too. Both the worlds are rich, weird, fun, scary. They suck you in. They speak to the outsiders--and who buys books but the outsiders? The kids who are too smart, too weird, too unloved, too unlovely in their own eyes, too gay, too abused, too nerdy---all those kids looking for a better, or at least a different world than the one they've been given. I'm a middle-aged man, Tony, and that damn book made me cry."

"Thor. And the cave," Tony said with sympathy.

"Your goddamn husband." Bruce wiped his eyes with both hands.

"I had a dream..." Bruce began.

"'That one day this nation will rise up...?'"

"Fuck you, Stark," Bruce said. "I had a dream about your husband."

"That happens to me a lot," Tony quipped, deadpan.

"Shut up. I dreamed I was in a long line, in one of those generic bookstores. Do they still have Borders? No? Okay, say Barnes & Noble, then, only I can't even remember if they had Barnes & Noble when we were kids. I was a kid in the dream. A teenager anyway."

Tony shrugged. "About Barnes & Noble? No clue. I was at MIT from age fifteen, remember? Everything I bought was from the campus bookstore. Being geek central, the science fiction section was aces. I used to curl up with a bottle of scotch---Obie sent it to me by the case, probably hoping to either have me tossed out on my ear or suffer premature liver failure, totally forgetting I am my father's son, manufactured at the Stark Factory for Functional Alcoholics. Anyway, there I was, studying not required, holed up in my MIT dorm room with the Highland's finest export and a giant stack of Heinlein. At the time, I thought Obie was the coolest fake uncle ever."

Bruce looked at him. The look may well have held sadness.

Tony gave a huge, bright, fake smile. "So, your dream? The Barnes & Noble that may or may not have been a Barnes & Noble?"

Bruce shook his head. "I was gripping a hardcover copy, a beautiful, pristine, hardcover first edition of _Sons of Asgard_."

"I have one of those," Tony said brightly.

"Shut up, Stark. I had a beautiful first edition clutched in my sweaty pubescent hands, and the line was snaking forward and snaking forward, until suddenly there I was, right at the table. I put my book down and I saw that it was Loki--I mean Lo Stark, the author. He was wearing his Loki armor, but he looked more like your Loki, thinner, and sad, maybe, where the crazy used to be, and those insane curls hanging down all around his shoulders, not slicked straight.

“Instead of signing my book right away, he took my hot, sweaty hands between both his dry, cool ones, so comforting, and gave me a sweet smile, looking into my eyes with his beautiful green eyes. 'It will all change, Bruce,' he said to me softly, in that erudite British accent of his. 'It will all change, and that can be frightening, though better in the end. Do you see?' And then he let go, very gently, saying, 'Oh, I've dropped my pen!' And he bent, but when he straightened up he wasn't holding any pen, he was holding that damn scepter, the one he used to mind-thrall Clint, and he stabbed me right through the heart."

"And killed you?" Tony asked. "Ouch!"

"No... No. I... changed."

"Into what? The Other Guy?"

"No, not him. I just changed. Into... something."

"Huh." Tony leaned back into the couch cushions, taking a long drink of his scotch. "Double huh. Yup, that's some cognitive dissonance you have going on there, my friend. Maybe it's not a bad thing?"

"What?" Bruce asked. He looked kind of shaky, and Tony felt bad about that, but he still felt the need to speak.

"The thing. The something you change into. Maybe it's not a bad thing you change into. Maybe you come out of your cocoon and you're a beautiful butterfly."

"Chrysalis. Unless I'm becoming a beautiful moth."

Tony stuck out his tongue at his friend.

"Very mature."

"So, you're becoming a fucking beautiful moth. A Luna Moth? We saw them at the zoo. They're very large and beautiful. So there."

"And the maturity continues."

"You know I'm not a New Age interpretation-of-dream-shit kind of guy, Bruce, but even I have had a nudge from my subconscious now and then. Change usually is scary, bro, but a lot of times it's also good. Not necessarily Hulk-change. But other kinds, yes, maybe. I've changed, like 900% in recent times. Still have a long way to go, but it's been almost universally good. And scepter aside, the Loki in your dream wasn't scary, he was sweet, right? You were glad to see him?"

"But maybe what my subconscious was telling me is that your husband's still the same bag-o'-cats he's always been, and he could change at the drop of a hat. And no 'Cat in the Hat' jokes, please. You've totally forgotten, Tone, but that's some powerful shit you have sharing your bed."

"I haven't forgotten anything." Tony's throat felt strangulation-tight, but he didn't want to be mad at Bruce. He didn't. Bruce was his the-families-we-choose brother, and Tony loved him.

He forced himself to take ten or so long, slow breaths, eyes closed, not caring if Bruce thought he was losing his shit. Which he almost did. But then he didn't.

Tony was very glad he didn't turn into a giant green rage beast. For one thing, it was hell on the sex life.

"Anyway," Bruce said, "I'm glad _Sons of Asgard_ covers your household expenses. That's pretty cool."

And... reboot. Back to normal.

"I gather it's all part of our weird-as-shit Asgardian marriage contract," Tony said lightly. "Under which the penthouse counts as our meadhall and therefore is Loki's responsibility. I'm in charge of our steeds, the safety of our household, and largesse to bondsmen, which I guess means maintaining the cars, the Tower, the StarkJet, paying Happy's salary and fixing my own damn Iron Man suits. I got off pretty light, don't you think? Of course, if I piss Lok off bad enough, he's entitled to move the whole damn Tower to another Realm if he chooses, and don't think he wouldn't do it just to teach me a lesson, even if it made his brain explode."

Tony sobered (figuratively speaking, having recently drunk nearly five ounces of scotch). "I'm trying not to let that happen."

"Good call," Bruce said drily. "I'd hate to have to find a new place to live."

"Or get used to a whole new dimension." Tony ambled to the kitchen to fill a water bottle. He felt fine, really. Mellow, but fine.

"You know, I actually suspect being a second prince involved all kinds of fiduciary responsibilities, because despite his general math ineptitude, Loki is scary sharp at that kind of stuff. You just know Asgard never ran out of toilet paper on his watch. He still may not be able to solve a basic quadratic equation with the help of a calculator and a Fields Medal winner, but he could probably balance the Stark Industries quarterly financials using a legal pad, a crayon and an abacus."

Tony studied his friend and the complicated, almost bitter--or was it sorrowful?--look on his face. "

Bruce," he said softly, "I love you, man, but I really do mean it seriously when I say I fucking hate you despising my husband so damn much."

"I know you do. But, cognitive dissonance, remember?" Bruce sighed. "I don't despise Loki. It's complicated. Please know I probably hate the crap that comes out of my mouth as much as you do."

Tony gave him a look. He took a long, long drink of his nice cool water.

"Hokey as it may sound," he said, thoughtfully, "I love him so much I can't even come near describing how that feels, and I hate that he's been so hurt in his life. I respect in every way that your childhood was beyond fucking horrible, Bruce, but take it from me, and not in any way downplaying your pain, Loki's was worse. He can't even trust in how much I care for him. He can't believe that anyone actually ever would love him, except his kids. He can't even look in the mirror, gorgeous as he is, without seeing some hideous, misshapen monster. Then you guys treat him so shitty, and that's what he has to look forward to week after week, day after day. It's just so much fun getting to watch my beautiful, sweet husband getting skinnier and twitchier on a daily basis because my friends' number one hobby is hating on him."

He leaned forward and topped off his glass of Glenmorangie, though he totally hadn't meant to, and knew it didn't exactly set the best lifestyle precedent.

"I hated even more," he went on, almost muttering into his tumbler, "Having to have fucking Wolverine--and no offense whatsoever meant against the man himself when I say that--as my best man because Rhodey, and you, wouldn't even show up at my wedding. And yet, wonder of wonders, we had--without incident, I might add--a full complement of X-Men and underprivileged kids from the Lower East Side blowing bubbles at us and cheering us on, so the affair can't have been that fucking dangerous. We managed to get the cake cut without my new spouse subjugating Manhattan, amazing as that may sound."

"That wasn't..." Bruce tried to get in, but Tony wasn't finished.

In fact, he was mad. Really mad. Furious.

"By the way, you know damn well it was supposed to be you as my best man, asshole. It always was, Bruce. You're the brother I never had, and I thought you were always going to stand up with me, but you didn't."

Tony took a minute trying to corral the hurt of that, and not let it get too close, but it just kept running wild on him.

"Loki saved your ungrateful asses in Latveria and you all pretend that never happened. You pretend he never did a good thing in his life and that Clint being short-term mind-controlled excuses everything, but Loki being fucking tortured for a solid fucking year, then mind-controlled, makes him 100% responsible for every bad thing in human history."

"Define 'worse,'" Bruce said, in a tight, expressionless voice. So they were still back on that subject.

"Okay, then, here's your worse. Loki had five-year-old twin boys, Narfi and Vali, after having been repeatedly... interfered with, let's say, for seven years by his brother Baldr. Remember Baldr? Wasn't he a fun guy?

“ Loki was just a kid at the start of it, early teens, maybe, which equals a baby among the Aesir. He hadn't even hit the Loki-equivalent of puberty. When the boys were born he ran away with them, and with a young friend of his, only Odin tracked them down. The Lord High Allfucker turned one of the twins into a rabid wolf and had it kill the other, then had the wolf slaughtered too. All of this, of course, right in front of his son. You might remember this next part, there's a milder version in _Sons of Asgard_. Odin magicked the little ones' guts into unbreakable chains and used them restrain Loki on top of a bunch of pointy rocks, in an underground cavern, for two hundred fucking years.

"Oh, and for the icing on the cupcake, he put a snake overhead, dripping acid. Loki's face, eyes, nose, tongue, everything burned completely away, with his poor, wasted body, nothing to feed it, trying and trying to regenerate. And you know why this happened? Because Loki 'tempted' his brother. Baldr got to go live on Midgard, scott-free, and do whatever the fuck he pleased for centuries. Loki got the cave, the rocks, and the snake. By the way, most of this came from Thor, who cried like a baby--and practically lost his lunch, too--when he told me, so don't tell me it's Loki's ploy for sympathy. All Loki does is jerk awake in the middle of the night, fucking crazy distraught and screaming out his kids' names."

"I never meant..." Bruce began, then got a sour look and shifted over into, "He's a big boy."

"Says Dr. 'I'm Not That Kind of Doctor' Banner, the psychology expert who can't control his rage-beast," Tony answered shortly. He took a long, long drink of his well-refreshed scotch.

"I think the loneliness has to be the worst, being literally the only one of his kind." Tony found the words draining out of him, silence and sadness wanting to creep in. "Part _Aesir_ , part Frost Giant, part who knows however many fucked-up pieces else. He does all this amazing, artistic stuff because his giant brain won't shut off, ever, and if he doesn't work and work and work it drives him crazy.

“He has seventeen DNA strands, Bruce, grouped in five triples and a pair. Is it congenital? Something Doom and Co. did to him when he was in their tender care? Something Odin got up to when Loki was a kid? Hank McCoy and their best mutant minds have been on it since we got back and so far it's a complete diddley, except maybe, just maybe, he pulls from the different strands when he shapeshifts, so he doesn't just impersonate the thing he turns into, he becomes it. We won't even go into the horrorshow of a reproductive system he's got going for him."

"It's no big deal being intersexed." Bruce drained his juice glass. "Lots of people are intersexed. A good enough number are intersexed and fertile. The best thing is to just keep accepting thoughts about your partner in the foreground and help him feel... What?"

"Fuck, Bruce, do you honestly think I have a problem with the way my husband looks, or works, or is, or anything? Do you think he isn't the most absolutely gorgeous, perfect person in the world to me?"

"Well, I do recall hearing the word "horrorshow" in there somewhere."

"That's as in it's painful and strange and none of it works right together. What system lets you get pregnant with triplets, then, oops, there's no way for them to get out, they'll just have to fucking gnaw their way through your stomach? Yeah, that works. Or you have a miscarriage and you just bleed and bleed with your dead baby stuck someplace it wasn't ever meant to be, but nobody knows because it all just backs up inside you? And you wanted that baby. You wanted it so badly, in a way you never knew you wanted anything before. He was so beautiful, our boy..."

Tony found himself with his fingertips pressed against his eyes again, the grief still so present and so new, even after four months, it just filled up his head and spilled over into the world. Maybe he was making too much of it, maybe he was supposed to be tougher, but he wasn't, and he couldn't.

He'd been so scared, and then, after, he'd been so sad.

 _Wilhelm..._ he thought. _God, my Wilhelm, my beautiful boy..._

"Tony?" Bruce said softly, and this time he sounded only like a friend, and a caring one at that. "While you guys were overseas, did...?"

Tony leaned back, rubbing his face roughly with both hands.

"Just so you know, that's pretty much why I flew off the handle when you joked about the measles."

"Crap, because they can cause miscarriages. God, Tony, I'm more sorry than I can say." Bruce paused. "Which of you are we talking about here, by the way? Is it Loki, or Tony, who's so broken up over this?"

"It doesn't matter," Tony answered.

Whoa, that was a new flavor of bitter, even for him.

"Was Loki...? Is Loki okay?"

"Heartbroken. Dealing however he's able. Healing physically, more or less. Hiding it all, as usual. You know how he is about the kids."

"And how about you, Tony?"

"Heartbroken. Dealing badly as usual. Drinking too much. Feeling like shit."

"What can I do?"

"Be a little bit gentle with us, maybe? Take the bottle away from me when you can. And maybe now explain what happened with my Empress?"

If anything, Bruce looked relieved at the subject change.

Tony could see why his ScienceBro had thought the story worth repeating, even if the whole thing lay so far outside their mutual wheelhouse it practically took up residence in the next county. He wouldn't have believed it, probably, if someone other than Bruce had been doing the telling.

As it was, Tony had to buy what his friend said; it was so far from Bruce's personal brand of bullshit (not that Bruce particularly had a personal brand of bullshit) it had to be true.

Hela rehearsed with the Girls' Choir every Tuesday and Friday from two to four in the sanctuary of St. Pete's---longer if she'd been tagged for a solo, which with her soaring, crystal-clear child-soprano and ability to handle music so complex it would have baffled a thirty-five year old operatic diva, was often the case.

Along with their _Haute Couture_ obsession, both Loki and Hela (and, to an only slightly lesser extent, Jöri) shared a devotion to insanely difficult music. Every time he turned around, a different instrument had appeared in the penthouse: a pair of child-sized violins, a flute, an oboe (for those impromptu performances of _Peter and the Wolf_ , he guessed, that no family should be without), a cello (that was Loki's instrument of ultimate despair), a few different acoustic guitars, the round-bellied lute Loki loved to mess around on all the time.

Yup, he was married to a lutenist. Loki, of course, being Loki, had informed him of the correct term.

Bruce had been strolling home with Hela--with Hela walking backward so she could face him and demonstrate, flawlessly, _a cappella,_ and at full volume, what she called "the especially pretty part" of her solo, people turning in amazement all up and down the sidewalk to look at the ethereally beautiful child with the angel's voice and no sense, whatsoever, of self-consciousness--when they saw a little white puffball dog get away from a string being wrangled by a dog-walker, running from the guy and the other dogs like the fiends of hell were behind it, trailing its pink, rhinestone-studded leash.

Hela let out a squeak---of course they'd both known the stupid thing would head straight into the street, and of course it did. Right in front of a cab.

There'd been a sound like a melon being dropped from a height.

"Oh." Hela didn't scream, didn't cry, just spoke that little _oh_.

"And you know those gloves she insists on wearing all the time?" Bruce asked. "She won't touch anyone without them? She peeled them off slowly, one by one, and just walked out into traffic before I could stop her."

"Fuck it, Bruce," Tony breathed.

The possibilities terrified him. Hela. His radiant Hela. If anything ever happened...

"Tony, everything stopped. Like, suspended-in-amber stopped. It was like something from... You know, that TV show, _Fringe_ we binge-watched, with the weird happenings and time travel and parallel universes? Anyway, just like _Fringe_ \--I half expected Peter and Walter Bishop to appear in an elderly station wagon and start taking samples, or measurements, or something, talking about other realities.

"Only I wasn't stopped, and I guess your daughter wasn't either. She reached down, not the least bit squeamish, and pulled that blood-soaked puffball out from under the taxi's wheels. She carried it back to the sidewalk, and this is where it gets weird..."

"Weirder than the fringe-event stopped traffic?"

"Ooh, yeah. Because as she carried that dog---and I won't go into details, but it was done for, barely alive, just... wrecked." Bruce shivered. "But Hela... I don't know how to describe this... She kind of... I dunno... Divided that little mutt? So, there was one completely healthy extra-shiny-white dog frisking around her feet, and a broken, bloody dying dog in her arms. And then---get this, Tone--Hela walked up to this fancy, scrolly doggy door in the alley wall. Yup, a frickin' dog-sized door, very decorative, just randomly there on the brick wall.

"Hela gave me this look, like, _Anything you wished to discuss with me, Uncle Bruce?_

"She opened the door, the little bouncy shiny dog ran through and then she shut it again. And then--let the weirdness continue---the scrolly door disappeared. If I'd taken drugs in the sixties I'd have sworn I'd taken too many drugs in the sixties."

"How about the eighties?" Tony asked. "I myself took a shitload of drugs in the eighties."

"Nope, not during the eighties, either," Bruce answered.

"The dog walker had managed to make it across by then and Hela took off her school cardigan and wrapped up that mangled little body.

'You should be more careful,' she told the guy, in her best seven-year-old-channeling-Loki-voice, and the guy just kind of staggered away, dazed, with the dead pup in his arms.

"At which point Hela stood there regarding me--you know that expression she gets, like there's a five thousand year old woman staring at you out of her eyes? She pulled on her gloves, one by one, slowly.

'You asked for death more than once, Uncle Bruce,' she said. Not coldly, but a long way from warmly. 'No, not asked, pleaded. You pleaded for death, and freedom from the monster that rides your back, many, many times, thinking no one listened. Uncle Bruce, please realize that someone listens all the time, and that your pleading, your desperation, indeed noticed, made you from the first day of your asking one of mine. Not all doors open onto the same place. Perhaps that knowledge will make you reconsider your treatment of my dearest _Pabbi_.'"

Tony studied his friend's face. "What did you say?"

"Nothing. I felt really concerned. And, frankly, kind of nauseated. We walked home. When we got to the penthouse, and I felt slightly more coherent, I tried asking Hela what had just happened.

She gave me her innocent look, and said. 'I am very young, Uncle Bruce. I find I lack sufficient vocabulary. You should ask _Pabbi_.'"

"'Lack sufficient vocabulary,' my ass." Tony shook his head.

Only Hela would use those words to say she didn't have the words.

"So Loki knows what's going on?"

"Apparently." Bruce knocked back the last dribble of his orange juice. "Well, I should..."

"Maybe later, after the kids? If they get down okay and Loki just wants to sleep, I mean."

"Tentative lab date it is." Bruce grinned---a little shaky, but still a grin.

He'd been a good sport, mostly, about Tony's new priorities, and at least, despite the limited contact, he seemed to like the kids okay, however cognitively dissonant he felt about their other parent.

"I'll let you know as early as I can."

"Fair enough." Bruce ambled off, passing Mrs. Ransome in the doorway as she came in to start dinner.


	4. Rules for Playing Chess with D... um... Your Daughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony discovers that Fen has been suspended from school. Loki and Hela play chess. Tony makes a faux pas with his daughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> " _Masterbuilders_ " and " _Everything is Awesome_ " are both from 2014's surprisingly funny _The Lego Movie_.
> 
> "Trust the Musketeers, but not the Cardinal's Men"- I think we can hazard a guess that Hela's been spending some time with the works of Alexandre Dumas, père, best known as the author of _The Three Musketeers_ (1844) and _The Count of Monte Cristo_ (1844–1845) as well as other historical novels of high adventure.
> 
> "StarkTime" is a play on the Apple FaceTime app that allows users to see each other and talk by phone (or device) at the same time. 
> 
> _"My love for you's so overpowering, I'm afraid that I will disappear"_ is a line from the song " _Slip Slidin' Away_ " by Paul Simon, from his _Greatest Hits, Etc.._ album (1977).
> 
>   _Katchen_ is Kurt Wagner's longstanding nickname for his friend Kitty Pryde.

* * *

Mrs. Ransome, the Stark family cook smiled at Tony as she opened up her knife-roll. A short, trim woman with Jamie Lee Curtis hair and twinkling gray eyes, she not only made remarkably delicious comfort food, but was also great with seafood and with tolerating Loki's nine million food allergies and the nine million other things he was just too damn picky to eat, all apparently without being tempted to bludgeon him to death with a saute pan.

Tony would have been irritated sometimes himself if he hadn't known Loki was trying to suit human food to a body that simply wasn't human, along with being preternaturally sensitive to scent and texture (the mere thought of a banana scared Loki worse than the goriest zombie movie).

The _Aesir_ could thrive perfectly well on anything humans ate--Thor, who would eat enormous amounts of literally anything, certainly proved that---but Loki, as he'd gone into with Bruce, was no more than half _Aesir_ , if that. Thor had mentioned once that Loki nearly died as a baby because they'd tried to feed him from a _Aes_ wetnurse.

A lot of his pickiness issues undoubtedly stemmed, too, from a youth of being forced, tormented or dared to eat or drink things he knew full well would practically destroy him. His only options were either learning to completely hide how he felt or to develop a policy of never eating anything in front of anyone. Ever.

Other things he might once have enjoyed evoked in him memories that were simply too painful.

The sweetness of honey, for example, meant for Loki nothing but an agonizing sense-memory of his sons Narfi and Vali.

"Will the rosemary roast chicken still be okay for this evening, Mr. Stark?" Mrs. Ransome asked.

"Yeah, that sounds great, if you can call in the rest of the flock to keep it company, or bump up the sides, or something. The bro-in-law's probably still on for tonight, since we haven't heard otherwise, and you know what that means. Loki's not feeling his best, so he may just want broth or something, if you could swing that?"

"That's never any problem, Mr. Stark. I'll have some ready, on the back of the stove if he wants. And please tell Loki I'm so sorry he's feeling poorly."

Yup, he was Mr. Stark. Loki was Loki. Of all the women in the world, apparently only Natasha was immune to his husband's charms, and even that was sometimes debatable.

"You're a treasure, Mrs. Ransome."

She smiled at him. Everything felt good and domestic, except for Loki being under the weather and Bruce's strange story. Despite all he'd had to drink, he felt warm and slightly floaty, but otherwise fine. Fine enough to conceal his over-consumption.

However, if Tony hadn't known his best friend so well, he'd have said Bruce actually was trippin', abstinent eighties aside.

He sauntered down the hall to check on the kids. Jöri's room was tidy and empty, his homework--math, science, reading and French--neat and complete, even though it wasn't due until Monday. Tony loved that his son wasn't a procrastinator. The reading and French, he'd have Loki take a look at if he felt up to it, but the science and math (Jöri's preferred subjects) were perfect. A wave of love and pride washed through him. Jöri looked and acted like a bright seven-year-old rather than the two years of his actual age. He was amazing.

Tony could hear Jöri's voice now, a slight variation on Loki's British accent, undercut by a series of small plastic snaps. He knew the sound well. One of the joys of being Tony Stark was the ability to give his kids all the Lego sets they wanted.

As he argued to Loki, it wasn't spoiling, it was Lego! Imagination! Creative play! Problem solving!

He poked his head in around Fen's door and saw that he was right: the boys had made massive inroads into assembling their huge Hogwarts set. More than that, a lively Quidditch match appeared to be taking place (Ravenclaw versus Hufflepuff), Jöri making the little yellow people talk, Fen zooming them through the air.

The match ended abruptly when the boys noticed Tony watching, two dozen tiny plastic people raining down at once onto the play table and carpet.

His sons stared at him, wide-eyed.

"Fen." Tony stroked his (marginally) youngest's thick silver-black-brown hair, sorrow like a lump in his stomach. "Honey, you know it's always okay at home to play any way you want to. Like I'm going to mind? I think its super cool! I wish I could do it too, actually."

The flash he caught from his son was of guilt and shame, with a thick overlay of STUPID FEN, just like some of the self-esteem shit that leaked out of Loki when he didn't shield well enough.

Jöri hopped down from kneeling on his chair and fetched an envelope from the pocket of his school uniform jacket, bringing it to Tony.

 _They're mean to Fen,_ he said, with quiet outrage, inside Tony's head. _I hate them._

Tony broke the seal, read, then tucked the letter into the envelope again.

"I'll talk to your _Pabbi_ , guys. We'll figure something out by Monday, okay?"

Fen flashed a quick smile, then went back to his play. Whatever his troubles, he was truly a little Masterbuilder.

Tony watched Hogwarts go up for a few minutes more, its people happily strolling around now on their tiny rectangular feet, treated his boys to a slightly off-key chorus of " _Everything is Awesome_ ," (the better, fiendishly, to get the tune stuck in their heads), then gave each a kiss and let them know dinner would be ready in forty.

He wandered away to his and Loki's room.

Loki was propped up on all the pillows, with Hela sitting cross-legged beside him, wearing one of her elaborate Victorianish black velvet get-ups. They had Hela's magnetic chess set open between them and looked most of the way through a game.

Hela touched a lace-mitted fingertip to her queen.

"I think you will find, dearest," Loki told her hoarsely, "That were you to play your rook instead, you would have me in three moves."

Hela's jet-black brows shot up. She studied the board, then repositioned her rook. "I accept your unconditional surrender, King Loki. Which is not the same as losing," she added in haste.

"I surrender freely and graciously to you, queen of my heart." Loki kissed her gloved hand. "Now I believe your dad needs to speak with me about something of vital interest to the security of the realm."

"Trust the Musketeers, but not the Cardinal's Men." Hela gathered up her chessmen and folded the board. "I'm going to StarkTime Kitty. She's giving me some pointers for my programming assignment. Don't think you're off the hook for that either, Dad."

"I look forward to it," Tony answered. "Have fun."

"Feel better, _Pabbi_ dear." Hela bent down to kiss Loki's cheek, returning his wan smile with a brilliant one of her own.

Gods, she was beautiful! By the time she was in her teens he was going to have to dig a deep, deep moat around the Tower and stock it with sharks and piranhas to keep the suitors away---that, and meet all her potential dates dressed as Iron Man.

"I shall, my love," Loki told her, adorably gentle with her, as he was with all three children. "Give my best to Katchen."

Hela giggled. "You sounded just like Uncle Kurt when you said that."

The comment earned her a second wan smile.

For a second something close to concern flashed across Hela's face, and perhaps something else, then it was gone. She brushed past Tony in a flounce of black velvet.

"See ya, Dad."

"See ya, Wednesday."

Hela stopped, turning, her expression firm, adult and serious. "Don't call me that that, Dad. Ever. Are we clear?"

Her voice was also firm. Not angry, but decidedly firm.

"I understand that you meant to make a cultural reference to Wednesday Addams of the Addams Family and the similarity of her funereal garb to my own, but you've missed the deeper significance."

Tony was mystified. "Darlin', keeping in mind I'm an engineer and a Midgardian..."

"Midgardians named the days, Dad. We didn't. Wednesday equals Wotan's Day. Wotan equals Odin. Odin equals Allfucker, equals, don't call me that. Ever. Are we clear?" Hela's tone remained even and friendly, but her eyes flashed fire.

"As crystal," Tony said. "I apologize, Hela."

"You wouldn't have known." She put a small gloved hand on his arm and squeezed lightly, his astounding daughter, two going on seven going on twenty, so much like Loki it amazed and almost frightened him sometimes.

"Sweetie," he said, "Bruce told me... The dog...?"

The look she gave him this time wasn't so much sad as it was pitying.

"Later, Dad, okay? Kitty's expecting me."

Well, far be it for him to keep a mutant computer genius waiting.

"Go, then. Only half an hour to dinner, though."

"Got it." His daughter flitted away. Tony returned to the bedroom.

Loki had further rearranged the pillows to sit up even straighter against the headboard. He looked rough--pale, sweaty and miserable, but he gave Tony a loving smile.

"How are the oranges?" Tony asked.

“ Frighteningly orange-like. I find myself developing a terror of grapefruits, at this point." Loki sighed. "The extra-large sort, as I hear are grown in Florida."

Toni snaked a hand under the covers. "Nope, no grapefruits, but Christ, Lok!"

"It really is most unpleasant. At this point I have ceased asking what other hideous surprises Midgard holds for me."

Tony scooted up against the headboard, sliding an arm behind Loki's back, his other arm around his husband's chest. Loki sagged against him, his head on Tony's shoulder. Tony kissed the top of his soft black hair. There was a smoky, embery scent overlaying Loki's usual snow/pine/clove smell, one he remembered from when Loki was ill in Britain. It was a shock to feel his normally cool skin so warm again.

"I heard a song," Loki said.

"Yeah?"

"It said, ' _My love for you's so overpowering, I'm afraid that I will disappear_.' I feel that way at times, my love. All my long life I believed myself made for power and not for emotional attachment, since all I loved played me false. Yet my bids for power proved so entirely ill-considered and foolish, I dishonored myself, made myself an object of shame and revilement whom none can care for..."

"Hey..." Tony tipped Loki's face up so that he could look into his cloudy eyes. "First off, as I've probably stated a hundred times by this point, I don't think anyone could have resisted a year of exposure to the combined mindfuckery powers of Thanos and The Other. You did the best you could with that, Lok. Anyone else there probably would have been a ton more damage. Stop beating yourself up. Seriously, babe."

"The others, your friends, your dearest friend Bruce most especially, so hate me still, no matter how I attempt to prove myself, no matter what I say or do. I feel their thoughts within me, best-beloved, as I feel their disgust in the air, every second of every day, and it tears at me, until I can scarcely bear it. It is the drinking and breathing of poison, scarcely different from the drip of the serpent's venom, with no Sigyn to offer me a moment's respite."

"Well, respectfully speaking, 'cause they are my team, but fuck them. Ask Nat and Clint how many people they've killed--ask Captain Honorable, for that matter. What do you think happens when Bruce fully gets his Hulk on--do you think he takes the time to gently shoo innocent bystanders out of the way? The hate they put on you, they could just as easily put on themselves. "I love you. The kids love you. Kurt and Logan love you. Thor loves you. We're all on your side to be your respite, and we think you're fantastic. Mrs. Ransome wants to run away with you to a tropical island and fatten you up on colorful fish she's hand-speared for you on the coral reef and delicately grilled over open flames."

Tony slid down so that he and Loki were face to face. "Do we have to have the talk about how I made weapons that killed thousands and thousands of people, many of them innocent? If I can turn that around, you can turnaround your shit too. Someday the guys will see what I see. They'll get over being assholes. Just keep reminding yourself, please, that it's them, not you."

Tony studied his husband's face. Loki's eyes had gone closed, silent tears leaking under his bruised-looking lids. It worried him. Loki never cried, hadn't cried since he'd been next door to dying. Where anyone else would cry, he'd withdraw into some nook or corner (or the terrace, as he'd done recently), and, as previously discussed, put his beautiful long hands over his mouth, staring out blankly, the light glinting off his too-bright, glittery irises.

Tony couldn't decide which was more heartbreaking.

"Loki," he said gently. "Oh, Lok, no, no. It's okay. It's okay. Sweetheart, it's okay."

"Please, Tony, never feel sorrowful or ashamed that you wed me?" Loki choked out. "Please, I beg of you, Tony."

Something garbled followed about Fen being suspended from school for shape-shifting---which Tony already knew from the letter, though the letter accused Fen of bringing a "dangerous animal onto school grounds"--which would have been laughable, if the punishment hadn't made their little boy so sad.

At which point, Loki's sore throat made him start coughing again, and he drank desperately, eyes tearing, from the water bottle Tony passed him.

Tony sighed. How could Loki even think...? And then there was Fen, who (barring first thing in the morning, when he could be quite a rambunctious little tiger) was the sweetest, mellowest kid ever in the history of kiddom. For him to have made an accidental shift, something truly terrifying must have happened, and that being the case, Tony wouldn't have sent him back to that classroom anyway, suspension or not.

Stark Academy usually hired only the best--he made damn sure of that. He didn't have direct control over the school, but he did have oversight, and the kids in the school were the kids of his employees (and potentially the next generation of employees themselves).

Happy employees were good employees, good employees made good product, and good product made him filthy, stinking rich, which is how Tony liked things.

He'd ask around the other parents who had kids in the program, hear their thoughts. So far he hadn't been the biggest fan of the two head teachers in the special-ed classroom. One was a six and a half foot tall blowhard who liked to stand too close when they were talking, as if his being a giant (as Tony liked to say, a giant asshole was still an asshole) could intimidate Tony-fucking-Stark. The woman always seemed a little sharp, a little impatient, a little disrespectful of the children under her care.

Tony hated people being disrespectful to children, as if they weren't real people with thoughts and feelings of their own. He made a point of being open and honest with the kids--like the situation with Hela. She'd felt perfectly free to tell him what made her mad, and why, and he'd been man enough to admit she was right and apologize.

They didn't have to be Howard and Tony, tyrant and peasant, all over again.

"I failed Fen," Loki whispered. "My dearest, bravest boy, why didn't I protect him?"

Tony knew Loki didn't mean the problem at school, but was remembering instead their last day in Latveria. Doom may have been out of the picture (thank you for that one, Kurt), and that sick fuck Stefan Szardos dead in a truly lasting way, but Baldr, worst of the lot, continued to be very much alive, as did his pack of henchmen (minus the five Loki had taken care of on a equally permanent basis).

Magic had filled the air, with a weird, staticky, sizzling feeling. Every other noise disappeared beneath a bedlam of screams, and gunfire, and bodies crashing, as Doom's and Baldr's minions clashed with the forces of S.H.I.E.L.D.

Tony tried and tried to shut down the evil machine Doom had set cranking, but thanks to the Latverian's diabolical engineering skills, every wire he snipped, every valve he uncoupled--thinking that would somehow do the trick--possessed a backup, and the damn machine didn't fall silent until Baldr was equally dead, caught up in a spiderweb of Loki's magic, then torn into pieces by Fen.

All that time his guys, future husband and future son, had been showered in whatever mysterious filth the machine spewed over them.

Loki gave up everything he had to shield Fen, every last protection, and had by far taken the worst of it. They were still finding out ways in which his magic and his health had been affected. Besides that, his time directly afterward in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s nothing-like-tender care had done the opposite of help him.

Fen had gone into a coma, but once he'd come out they'd thought he was fine. At first.

He wasn't fine, though, any more than Loki was fine. His little body was strong and healthy, growing like his brother's and sister's. His interests were those of any elementary school child---Lego, dinosaurs, superheroes. Other things, all his academic subjects, really, escaped him, as did simple tasks like doing up buttons or brushing his teeth or hair

All these months later, Fen still spoke only a handful of words. Though he loved to be read to, and comprehended the stories perfectly well, he couldn't read or write for himself. He played the piano like a champion, just like his brother and sister, but picked up the music entirely by ear.

Loki seemed to take it all in stride. He read books about children with developmental delays and painted a series of charts that appeared all over the penthouse, featuring a happy little boy who looked like Fen: the steps for using the toilet, personal grooming, making his bed, tidying up his room. Loki always rose early to make sure Fen got through his steps, as well as his top o' the morning Wild Thing phase, quieting or lending a hand as Fen needed him.

Much as Tony loved his son--and his love for Fen was enormous, unfathomable--and knew how huge his sacrifice had been, Tony found it all slightly awkward. He had to admit he felt more comfortable with his beyond-genius daughter and extremely bright son. He didn't have Loki's instinctual touch, his way of sensing exactly what was wrong and the best way to deal with the situation.

Gods, though, it tore him up that Loki still blamed himself up so viciously. Tony hated in himself that he didn't find it easy to give Fen quite as much of his heart as he gave the other two kids. It made him feel like a jerk.

Fen was perfect, just as he was, however he was. His son was loving, adorable, brave... It was his dad who sometimes fell short.

Maybe it was because he was an engineer and a mechanic. He fixed things. He lived to fix things. Unlike Loki, he didn't always accept that some things weren't meant to be fixed, except maybe by time. He wanted his solutions and he wanted them right then.

Tony wanted Fen to be all better. He wanted Loki to be all better. And then he wanted to protect them so that nothing, nothing could ever hurt them again.

"Ssh, Lok," he soothed. "Ssh, babe. You know there isn't anything you could have done differently. If you had, we'd all be dead. And Fen could still zoom forward again. Remember, in real time he's barely a toddler, even. Maybe he's just on a different schedule, the way Jori's different from Hela. We're together and we have three kids who are happy and loved. The little boy you're feeling so guilty about is contentedly building a giant Lego Hogwarts with his brother as we speak, and magically making the Lego peeps play Quidditch. Terrible life, huh, babe?"

Loki only cried harder, shaking with it, as Tony held him and stroked his hair, wondering what was really up in all the Layers of Loki. He'd long since learned that when his husband was upset, the reason he gave for his distress was usually just the tip of the iceberg.

Had it been the stupid Wednesday comment? Thoughts of what happened to Fen bringing up PTSD issues? Grieving for Wilhelm? Or just that Loki felt really, really shitty (yet again!) and didn't want to complain about it.

"I will not make you ill, will I?" Loki raised a hand to wipe his face, but Tony beat him to it with a handful of tissues from the nightstand.

"No, sweetheart, you won't make me ill. Blow." Loki complied.

"I had my shots as a kid, like a normal Midgardian. I'm immune. Thank you, von Doom and his fuck-up ray, huh?"

"Mmn." Loki kept his eyes closed. He looked brutally tired.

"Why don't you just stay in bed and rest this evening? We'll bring you something to eat."

"I cannot imagine anything I would care for." Loki picked himself up slowly, running his fingers through his curly hair to smooth it slightly. "Would you hand to me an elastic, dearest?"

Tony passed him the black band, watching Loki bundle his hair into a ponytail on his nape, something he rarely did.

"Mrs. Ransome is soon to call us, and it seems my brother has arrived for the family ritual."

The combination of his tone and Loki's sick-voice made it sound like they were sacrificing goats on the altar of evil instead of sharing dinner and a movie.

"Are you bothered?"

"Not the slightest bit. I always enjoy having Thor over. He's a great guy. Shall I round up the kids?"

"That would be lovely," Loki answered wearily, and began to drift toward the en suite bathroom. When Tony saw him next he was no longer blotchy and exhausted-looking, but flawless-skinned and perfectly put together in a lightweight jade cashmere sweater and black slacks.

If it wasn't magic, Tony wished he knew how Loki did it.


	5. Dinner Party, Take 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thor comes to dinner. Certain facts about Hela are made abundantly clear. Thor is a good bro, and so is Kurt. Bruce? Not so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "deets"=details
> 
> "take a gander"=take a look  
> Since a male goose is a gander, and geese have long necks, the phrase refers to stretching out your neck (in other words, making a certain amount of effort) to see something. It's been used in its current form since around 1914 and may have developed out of thieves slang.
> 
> The shell game uses three (or more) identical containers (often cups) and a small ball. The ball goes under one upside-down container which is then shifted around rapidly by the operator as the player watches. The player is asked to bet "double or nothing" on where the hidden ball has ended up--which, if the game was being played honestly, would give the player a 1-in-3 chance of doubling his money. In practice, the shell game is a notorious example of the "short con" in which the con artist uses sleight of hand, moving or hiding the ball as needed to ensure the player never wins.
> 
> The image of playing chess with death dates back to Medieval times, and shows up in such different settings as a painting by Albertus Pictor (circa 1480-1490) in Täby Church just outside Stockholm, Sweden, in the Ingmar Bergman film _The Seventh Seal_ (in which a Danish knight plays chess with Death during the time of the bubonic plague), and _Muppets Most Wanted_ , in which we briefly see The Swedish Chef involved in a chess game with Death.
> 
>  _Der Totentanz_ , (aka The _Danse Macabre_ or Dance of Death was a common genre of art during the Late Middle Ages. It's meant to express that death is universal, a dance everyone performs regardless of their station. The artworks generally show a "Death" figure summoning people from all walks of life: pope, emperor, king, child, and laborer to join in a dance to the grave. 
> 
> St. Vincent de Paul is a thrift store, specializing in used furniture.
> 
>  _The Flamingo's Smile_ is a collection of essays on natural history by Stephen Jay Gould.
> 
> "Nervous Nellie"=a person who overreacts or worries to much. The term comes the world of horse-racing, where "Old Nell" was a nickname an nag and "nervous Nellie" referred to a high-strung or skittish horse.
> 
> " _Stop, in the Name of Love_ ," written by Motown Maestros Holland-Dozier-Holland, was a huge hit for The Supremes back in 1965.

* * *

Tony and Loki emerged from the bedroom to find Thor, clad in a bright red Tommy Hilfiger hoodie, ripped jeans and Converse All-Stars, his long hair in a messy man-bun, hanging Mjolnir neatly in the closet.

"Brother! Brother-by-law!" he exclaimed, as the kids swarmed over him for hugs and kisses. "Glad I am indeed to see you!"

In the living area, once the children had subsided, Loki greeted his much-bulkier brother with a long embrace. "Thor! As ever, I am pleased to see you! Had you pressing Avengers business today?" Loki shot Tony a look around Thor's arm, questioning.

"Not for the Avengers but for you am I here, dear brother," Thor said. "Dr. Bruce Banner informed me you were unwell, but I felt so overwhelmingly homesick for you, I hoped it would not be troublesome that I arrived as usual. You do not mind, do you, Loki?"

Loki ducked his head, one arm still lingering around Thor's waist---and had those been tears shining in his eyes?

"Of course I do not mind, my much-loved fool of a brother," he said. "I am happy indeed to see you here."

Thor pulled his brother close again, holding him as gently as he was capable, kissing Loki's hair as Loki rubbed his back in return.

"My sweet brother," he murmured. "Sweet Loki, it is as Dr. Banner revealed to me, again you are not well. Fever clings to your skin."

 _Ewww_ , Tony thought.

"My dearest Thor," Loki murmured, "I am all the better for seeing you."

"Those two are so sappy," Jöri whispered loudly to Hela.

Tony pointed the dad-finger of shame at him.

A few seconds later the brothers broke apart, Thor exclaiming cheerfully, "With great joy I anticipate the cooking of thrice-excellent Mrs. Ransome!"

"When I heard you were coming I made extra, Mr. Friggason," the cook said cheerfully, bringing the last of their dinner to the table. "There's a big carton of homemade chocolate-raspberry ice cream in the freezer for dessert, and a smaller one of green tea sorbet for you, Loki. There are also lunches put up for tomorrow, in case you take an outing, or just don't feel like cooking, so if there's nothing else..."

"I have news I would share before you depart!" Thor announced. "So greatly have I prospered in my culinary studies that I have been approved for my externship. Now may I go out into the world and begin prep duties at the fine Nordic restaurant Aquavit, where I shall be directed by the most-excellent Chef Emma Bergdtsson, a puissant and talented daughter of the Northmen!"

"My brother, that is wonderful news!" Loki took Thor's face between his hands, kissing his forehead tenderly. "Boundless is my pride in you!"

"Yeah, good job, Thor. Well done," Tony put in.

Mrs. Ransome patted the god of thunder's massive arm. "You have great talent, Mr. Friggason, and I've heard many good things about Aquavit."

"That's it, then," Tony said. "J.A.R.V.I.S. reservations for Aquavit in what, two weeks' time? That should give droopy here time to get shiny and perky again."

"For how many, Sir?" the A.I. asked, his voice sounding slightly flat.

Disapproving? Nah, what was there to disapprove? Maybe he should get his hearing checked.

Loki shivered, and Tony wrapped a protective arm around his waist. "You're sure you don't want to at least curl up on the couch, babe?"

"No, I am well," Loki answered faintly.

Tony squeezed him a little tighter. "Okay, then, reservations for..."

Loki spoke up suddenly. "Thea, will you and Francis do us the kind honor of joining us as our guests? You have done much for our family, and I know you have helped my brother greatly, also, in the development of his skills, when he has sought you out for tutelage."

For a minute Mrs. Ransome (She was Thea? And who was Francis? Or was it Frances?---Tony realized he knew zilch about the woman who made his kids' school lunches, his dinner every night they didn't eat out, the bread for his morning toast and the butter and jam he spread on it, but obviously Loki did) looked like she was about to protest, but she crumbled like a cookie before the irresistible might of the god of mischief's puppy-eyes.

"Oh, Loki, that would be delightful. It's so kind of you to include us."

"Tony must meet your most-excellent husband, and hear his interesting discourse upon the sailing of tall ships upon the oceans. I am greatly pleased this opportunity presents itself. We ought to invite Kurt and Logan also, and Pepper, with Natasha, if she wishes, as they have performed many kind favors. Thor, might Jane also attend? Much time has passed since I saw her last, at our wedding, and I would continue to amend her opinion of me, as day by day I so greatly change."

"J., let's do it this way," Tony put in, "Find out when we can book the entire restaurant for the night. We'll make an intimate party of it. Make sure bro-in-law doesn't have to work that night and send the deets to my StarkPad---oh, and to Loki's too, please."

"As you wish, sir," J.A.R.V.I.S. replied, still flat-voiced.

Maybe old J. needed a tune-up to his voice-circuits or something. Tony reminded himself to take a gander next time he thought of it. And that was that.

Loki walked Mrs. Ransome to the door, the way he always did. "As ever, everything looks delightful, Thea. My greatest thanks, for all you have accomplished." He kissed her hand, in his strangely courtly way, before shutting the door.

"Mrs. Ransome has a crush on _Pabbi_ ," Jöri sing-songed to Thor, and Thor looked a little perplexed as to how to respond.

Loki slid into his seat across the table and began serving the kids, lots of meat for Fen, lots of veggies for Hela, about 50/50 for Jöri. He served Tony too, probably not even noticing what he was doing, and when Thor held out his plate, added half a chicken and mountains of carrots, broccoli and herbed new potatoes.

He put two broccoli florets and a potato-half onto his own plate and moved them around a few times.

Tony couldn't stand it. He jumped up again and filled Loki's big green mug (with the crown on it) from the saucepan of broth Mrs. Ransome had left simmering gently on the back of the stove, setting it down in front of his husband.

"There. For you, my dearest. Especially for you, because no one wants to watch you play the Shell Game with your whole three vegetables.

"I know not..." Thor began, before Loki explained the Shell Game to him with surprising accuracy. Mischief, anyone?

"You must not attempt this game ever, brother," Loki cautioned, "Especially upon the streets of New York. For you will lose."

"Yup, it's like playing chess with Death," Tony laughed.

Hela gave him a swift, sharp look, and suddenly, in his head, what had passed between his daughter and his husband earlier in the evening teetered into the realm of the bizarre.

"All is well if you unconditionally surrender before the end," Loki soothed him. "Checkmate may be announced, as long as the moves are not taken. One may interrupt the dance."

" _Der Totentanz_ ," Hela said. "Kurt taught me that word."

Somehow from that strange interruption conversation picked up again, lively as ever around the Stark dinner table, all the more so because half of it was out loud and half in their heads. Thor's presence just added extra volume to the dull roar, because if he possessed an inside voice, audible or inaudible, Tony had yet to hear it, plus, the brothers' feelings aside, the kids were so excited to have their uncle with them they were practically doing acrobatics.

Even Hela, who usually adopted an air of blase sophistication, was bubbly and giggly.

After dinner, Thor scooped Fen up for bath and jammies, Jöri and Hela volunteered for kitchen patrol, while Loki curled up on the couch with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, trying to pretend he wasn't looking listless.

Tony himself started flicking through some reports of household expenses on his StarkPad, stuff the accountants had sent up to him--this time the car use reports, which Tony found mind-numbing, the dullest of the dull. Usually the trips were all pretty much his anyway, except for Fen's twice-weekly occupational therapy visits and the twice-monthly trips to Salem Center for Fen and Loki to be poked and prodded by Dr. Hank McCoy. Appointments aside, Loki and the kids usually just took the subway, and seemed to enjoy planning their outings.

Yet here, several times a week for the past month and a half, were totally random trips for Hela and Loki, to what seemed like equally random destinations--Brooklyn, Queens, The Bronx, even Long Island.

Tony scrolled through several pages. They made no sense.

"Lok...?"

Loki pulled the blanket tighter around himself, turning to study Tony's face. Whatever he saw made him sit up, knees drawn to his chest.

Knees drawn to the chest, the number one Loki defensive posture, never equaled goodness.

Tony held up the StarkPad so his husband could see the screen.

"Whatever it is, it's fine, babe, it's totally fine. I just can't figure out what it means."

Loki regarded him with tired, red-rimmed eyes.

"You have all the pieces, _hjarta hjarta minn_ ," he said softly, "If you only think."

Tony stared back, thinking Loki was most likely right, he probably did have all the pieces. He just didn't know if he didn't know, or didn't want to know.

Then, like one of Thor's lightening-bursts, it came to him. For real. His daughter with her black velvet dresses and little gloves and five thousand-year-old stare. She wasn't just a mini-Goth princess, she actually, truly was... Playing chess...

"The dog," Tony said. "And the little door."

"Yes," Loki's hoarse voice answered, in quiet sympathy.

"The trips. Not random?"

"No, not random, best-beloved," Loki agreed.

"But not planned?"

"No, not planned, as such," Loki said.

"Circling back to your chess game," Tony said. "It's like you said--you didn't lose, you surrendered. You and Hela were both perfectly clear on that. Not losing."

"As was said, it would not be advisable, even for me... to lose to her," Loki murmured. "You are nearly there, my husband."

"That day, that first day together in the cell on the fauxlicarrier. You were pretty out of it, Lok, but Hela told me she was _Valkyrja_."

"Which is?" Loki laid a gentle hand on Tony's knee.

"Chooser of the slain," Tony said.

He remembered Loki expostulating. Gods, it seemed so long in the past! Much longer than two short years. They were only a week away, he suddenly remembered, from the kids' birthdays. Only a few days ago he and Loki had discussed gifts.

"Conclusion?" Loki huddled into his green blanket again.

"Fuck."

"Language!" Hela called out from the kitchen, in a laughably perfect imitation of Grandpa Steve.

Tony ignored the interruption. "I'm Death's Daddy."

He felt a surge of pure fury against his husband, but there was no real reason. It wasn't Loki's fault. It wasn't anyone's fault. It just was. He hated that it was, though even then he couldn't have said why.

He hated most, he guessed, that he'd been the outsider.  That everyone else knew, but he didn't.

"We'll talk," he whispered, as Thor ambled in with a steamy, sweet-smelling Fen tucked casually under one arm.

 _Now he knows_ , Tony saw Hela mouth to Loki, and the almost invisible nod Loki gave her in return.

Thor threw guilty looks from his brother, to his niece, to Tony, his mouth forming an "O."

Sure, it had to seem so fucking clear to all of them. Only he remained clueless, thought incapable of understanding. Left out of the loop--and it was a pretty goddamn enormous loop to be left out of.

"Who would like ice cream?" Thor asked, faux-cheerfully, in an obvious attempt to change the subject.

"Me! Me!" the kids chorused, with Fen giving his happy-hum. Even Hela chimed in, though Tony knew (now more than ever) her excitement was probably calculated.

"Sure, Thor," Tony answered, hating himself for feeling so pissy.

"No, I thank you, my brother," Loki said distantly, looking ill, and somehow deflated.

 _Do not give him a hard time about this, shithead,_ Tony scolded himself _. Just don't do it. Loki doesn't need the grief._

"Loki, I ask again?" said Thor, his voice hearty but cajoling. "Lady Jane tells me it soothes the throat most wonderfully, brother. You will feel better."

"I thank you, then, Thor. A little." Loki sounded utterly indifferent. Since Wales, he seemed to be back to eating only under duress, and when he was sad, stressed, or didn't feel well, that just got worse.

Tony kept meaning to ask Thor if he'd always been that way, or if it was something recent, something to do with life on Midgard.

At least he'd drunk his broth at dinner, and if Tony knew Mrs. Ransome, she'd probably sneaked secret extra-vitaminy things into the brew. Their cook seemed to have made it her unstated mission in life to drag Loki, kicking and screaming if necessary, back to radiant health.

They lined up together on the couch with their ice cream--Thor eating his from what appeared to be a serving-bowl--Loki in the middle and the kids sprawled over all three adults. Hela sat on Tony's lap, cuddling him as the bright opening frames of _Frozen_ began. The kids, even his sophisticated daughter, were rapt--it was their favorite movie and they could watch, sing and recite every line over and over and over again. Probably until the end of time.

Tony had read on his news feed that the composer had recently issued an apology to parents worldwide.

When Loki felt well he'd amuse the kids with Elsa-esque ice and snow tricks--it always seemed his favorite part of his _Jötunn_ heritage, the only part he seemed to enjoy, really, though Tony found his husband's _Jötunn_ self exquisitely, exotically beautiful.

This time, at five minutes in, Loki closed his eyes. At ten minutes, a hand went over his closed eyes. At twenty minutes, he started squirming uncomfortably (though surreptitiously) and Thor, rapt and smiling as the kids at what he saw on the screen, passed Jöri back down the line, turned his brother toward him and started rubbing Loki's shoulders and the back of his neck with one powerful hand.

At the hour mark, Loki pushed off from Thor's chest, giving his brother's shoulder a small pat.

"I'm for bed," he whispered. "Say goodnight, won't you, Thor, before you go down to your flat? Children, do not hesitate to come and be kissed before bed, else how would I myself sleep?"

Thor whispered, loudly, to Tony, "I shall walk him to the bedchamber."

The brothers didn't come back.

Tony and the kids watched the rest of the movie, then went through the processes of collecting bowls for the dishwasher, and brushing teeth.

Halfway through flossing, Hela paused, floss-pick in hand, and regarded him. "Perhaps you think you're justified in judging us, Dad," she said quietly, "But I'm not sure you are."

"I just discovered my daughter is Death," Tony answered. "I think I deserve some kind of learning curve."

"A Death." Thoughtfully, Hela flossed another couple teeth.

"What, it's like the library? You're the Manhattan branch?"

"Something like that," Hela answered.

His daughter finished her flossing, swished water around her mouth, and spat. She'd braided her long, curly, jet-black hair--just like Loki's--into two tails for the night. They hung over the shoulders of her cotton nightgown, which was full of tucks and lace and white as her skin.

"Okay, Dad, it's like this," she said, sighing. "Many Deaths, many of each Death. Some are frightening, punitive. Some sudden and unexpected, some tragic. I am a Blessed Death. I come when I am the right and only thing, when the there is no raging against the dying of the light. I make a beautiful door, and they take my hand and they go. It's not exactly what I planned. I was thinking either CEO of a Fortune 500 Company, like Auntie Pepper, or head of my own couture fashion house. But needs must when the devil drives, as they say. I'll try to fit in the rest."

She smoothed her white lace mitts onto her hands.

"And the gloves?"

"Oh, Dad," Hela answered, "You know why."

"So if I touched your bare hand...?"

Hela's green eyes, regarding him, were ancient as well as beautiful, but also a little sad.

"If you touched my hand, Dad? Yes," she answered softly, "Just what you think. But I never would, unless you called me. In this, I don't make mistakes."

 

After the stories and tucking-in, Tony went to the master bedroom, meaning to check if Loki needed anything and to say sorry for his unspoken dickishness. He found his husband out cold, face-planted in the mattress, with Thor's red cloak wound around him--with more volume to that particular garment than Tony would ever have suspected it possessed.

Sweat shone on the small amount of Loki's visible skin and he muttered softly, now and then, into the sheet.

Thor sat cross-legged on the bed with his All-Stars kicked off, simultaneously rubbing Loki's back, reading _The Shining_ by Stephen King, eating pistachios and drinking Cherry Dr. Pepper.

"Umn...?" Tony began.

"Brother Anthony!" Thor said in a very large whisper. "You will notice I am eating of the nut of the pistachio, which according to the allergy testing of "Big Blue" Dr. Hank McCoy is the only nut of tree, bush or ground that does not trouble my brother (and also is, coincidentally, very crunchy and tasty and my favorite). This Dr. Pepper, while perhaps not so wise as Dr. Hank McCoy, does offer a refreshing beverage. Is he related to the bountiful Lady Pepper Potts in any way?"

"I don't think so, Thor." Tony sat on the edge of the bed, brushing strands of hair back from Loki's forehead.

He hated feeling Loki's skin so hot and dry. It made him think of those awful days after they'd defeated Baldr and Szardos and Doom, and after Loki was finally released by S.H.I.E.L.D. During and after their little overseas adventure, too. That had also been bad. He was still mad about a lot of things, but he decided to settle on S.H.I.E.L.D. as a focus for his anger--the so-called Good Guys hauling his then-boyfriend away before Tony could do anything to help him, leaving him utterly in the dark and Loki, at the end of it all, completely broken, begging for death.

He'd known, just known, for so many mornings after, that it would be to the shiftily-delivered news that Loki had slipped off in the night, that he'd given everything he had and there was nothing left in him to fix the brokenness.

With S.H.I.E.L.D. telling him, "Oops, our bad. Pesky aliens, how dare their needs not be exactly like ours?"

Would Hela have come to Loki then, into his cell, opening a fancy door and calling out, " _Pabbi_ , it's time!" Could his sweet, much-loved Hela be so cruel?

Tony shuddered involuntarily, reminding himself, _There's reason nine million not to trust S.H.I.E.L.D. Ever_.

Even under Director (the artist formerly known as Agent) Coulson, who Tony still maintained was a decent guy. As decent, at least, as his shady bosses would allow.

Phil and Clint came to dinner at the penthouse fairly often. The kids adored Phil's giant Great Dane, Anastasia, and played with her on the terrace with rampant enthusiasm. Anastasia seemed very fond of all three of them, but her true heart belonged to Loki, who she worshiped with a love surpassing that of any dog for any person in the whole history of people and dogs.

In other words, everyone got along great. Which wasn't the same as trusting.

"My brother is not well," Thor said, reaching to set his soda on the nightstand.

"Yeah, mumps is usually a childhood illness," Tony answered. "It's a lot worse when adults get it. The... um... germs get inside glands. Like... uh... the salivary glands."

"And the man-stones," Thor added gravely. "The man-stones of my poor brother are swollen up like ball-cheeses. Had he not already mothered seven children I would doubt his future ability to sire any further."

There was so much weird in that statement Tony doubted his ability to respond.

"I'll tell you what." Tony stood. "Bruce is probably still awake. I'll go downstairs and talk to him, okay? See what he says?"

"I would rather you spoke to Kurt Wagner of Salem Center," Thor said, "For my brother is still, by my accounting of time, newly returned to me and I would not see him suffer or, worse yet, lose him, and the fuzzy-elf is his bestie."

Tony tried not to laugh at the fact that when the Mighty Thor, God of Thunder, tried out some Midgardian slang, it was the slang of a pre-teen girl. It somehow bookended well with the way his movie preferences were those of a middle-aged female Librarian.

"But Kurt isn't a qualified doctor yet, Thor, he's only a student. And it's the mumps, which means uncomfortable, maybe, but not life-threatening. Do you want to hang out here this weekend with us and help spoil him? The guest room is yours, if you want it."

Thor would not be deflected. "But friend Kurt has many years' experience treating patients, which is why he was able to advance quickly in his program of schooling. And he loves our Loki, as Dr. Bruce Banner does not."

The god of thunder gave him puppy-eyes, but Tony shook his head.

"Nope. Talking to Bruce. Just downstairs. You know Kurt would insist on 'porting all the way out here from Salem Center, the way he always does, and he'd knock himself for a loop."

"We might instruct him to drive instead," Thor countered. "The distance is not far, and Kurt operates a motor vehicle excellently well. He would not mind, so long as Loki was cared for, as he loves him greatly, like unto the very dearest of brothers."

"Uh-unh." Tony shook his head again. "Just once, let's give the poor guy and his home-life a break, shall we? At least until we hear what Bruce says."

Tony headed out, then popped back in just for a second. "Did you take Loki's temperature?"

Thor just looked woeful, so Tony popped into the bathroom for the device, maneuvering it gently into his husband's ear. It buzzed at 102.7 which was kind of nasty and could well have a lot to do with the nausea and headache, but stopped short of instantaneously brain-melting, at least. He hoped. How hot could a half- _Jötunn_ actually get before his brain melted?

 

Tony found Bruce lying on his crappy couch in his depressing furnished-from-St. Vincent de Paul living room, reading a dog-eared paperback of _The Flamingo's Smile_.

"How's paradise?" he said, when Tony knocked and entered (having done an override on the keycode for the millionth time). "Ready for some science now? I almost gave up on you, Tone."

"The god of thunder is a Nervous Nellie," Tony said. "But Loki has a highish temp and is pretty out of it at the moment, so understandable, I guess, if you come from a place where no one ever gets sick."

"Was it the Doom-ray thingy again, d'you think?" Bruce swung his feet over the edge of the couch and sat up. "I mean, your husband really is sick a lot. And I mean a lot."

"Let's say the Doom-ray." Tony sat on one end of Bruce's scarred coffee table. "I mean, we all kind of assumed immunity and then he wasn't immune to anything, quite the opposite, but it was too late to do much of anything. We're going to check with Hank McCoy about playing catch-up when he's better, if that's even a possibility."

"Plus he's kinda the prima donna fame..."

"Um?" Tony stuck out a hand, going full-on " _Stop! In the Name of Love_ " on his best friend. "What was that request I made?" He tried to sound as mellow about it as he could, not annoyed---he wanted a favor from Bruce, after all. "Gentle, did I say?"

Bruce laughed. "Yoda!"

"Okay, fair enough." Tony laughed a little too, but worry (and maybe, even, disgust with Bruce's attitude) made laughter harder than usual, even with his ScienceBro.

"So, all right," Bruce continued, "Adult mumps can be rough. Especially in the... uh... downstairs department."

"Like oranges," Tony said. "Or, as Thor puts it, 'Like ball cheeses.'"

Bruce snickered.

"Yeah, I know. My brother-in-law, good for hours of endless amusement. I lacked the courage to ask. But anyway...?"

"So, I don't think you really have to worry too much. Just try to keep his temp down--Loki can take Ibuprofen, right?--have him rest and keep him hydrated. Really push the liquids. He won't enjoy the next few days but he'll be fine, okay? Give Loki that ginger ale he likes so much if he keeps feeling nauseated. It usually seems to do the trick for him."

"That's really it? I know Hank said no anti-virals, but...?"

"I know it kind sucks to be Tony Stark and not be able to make your hubby feel better, but, yup, that's it. Rest, hydration, Tylenol for the pain and fever if he can tolerate it. He'll be fine, Tony. I wish there was some wonder cure, but there isn't. In general, when adults get childhood illnesses it's the pits, and with Loki's freaky chemistry, well..." Bruce shrugged and went back to his book.

 _Hope it's a fucking good read_ , Tony thought, and stuck his tongue out at his friend (for the second time that day) to give himself a little mature emotional relief.

He returned upstairs to find Loki in the shower and Thor singing a strangely somber version of what might have been a Katy Perry song (" _Firework_ ," maybe?) as he changed the sheets on the bed. As always, the god of thunder being all domestic amused Tony---though at least Thor seemed to have broken himself of the habit of wearing his armor for everyday activities. He supposed it was frowned upon at the Institute of Culinary Education, where he went to school, and at Aquavit.

Tony expected Thor's time doing prep would be a very temporary thing. Thor was (weirdly), a damn good cook, and also had the ability, with his godlike stamina, to cheerfully put in innumerable hours at any time of the night or day. Besides which, for a guy who'd spent the past thousand years in battle, the fast pace of a professional kitchen probably seemed like child's play.

"Perspiration soaked the sheets through," Thor explained. "I sought to increase my brother's comfort."

Tony moved down to the end of the bed, helping Thor with the tucking and smoothing.

"By the way," he told his brother-in-law. "I'm sorry to have to admit it, but you had Bruce's number. By which I mean you were right about him. He didn't give rat's ass."

"A rat's...?" Thor frowned.

"He was less than helpful."

His bro-in-law's frown deepened in disapproval. "In despite of his Oath of Hypocrisy, Bruce cares not for my brother."

"You know, I'm never sure how much of a doctor doctor Bruce actually is. I'm not even sure if he made it all the way to the Hippocratic Oath. You know how he's always saying, 'I'm not that kind of doctor?'"

"He might have helped Loki," Thor continued in his disapproval, "And yet he did not. That speaks not to me of humanity, for are not we who think and feel all human?"

"Yup, they are in my book, bro," Tony said.

"For that reason, I have indeed rung friend Kurt. He will arrive in the morning, and would have come in the night, only Loki would not allow him to make the journey in darkness. If necessary, Kurt will alert Big Blue for further aid."

Thor's tone said everything that needed to be said regarding his feelings as to Bruce's and Kurt's relative worth as human beings.

"At this moment, yet again, though we be teammates, I care for Bruce not."

Okay, so maybe the thunder god did have a little something more to say after all.

"Believe me, I'm feeling that too, Thor," Tony answered.

"I must work at Aquavit upon the morrow," Thor said. "And should soon to bed..." He started gathering his stuff: red cloak, empty Dr. Pepper bottle, half-eaten bag of pistachios, scary book, packing them neatly into a reusable shopping bag with a picture of a kitten on it.

"Go to bed, Thor. Get some sleep," Tony told him. "And don't worry. I'll take good care of your brother."

"I thank you, Tony," Thor said, and gave him a goodnight hug that was only slightly bruising. "I accept your offer of hospitality. Call with haste, please, if I am needed?"

"You got it," Tony answered.

After a bit, Loki came slumping back out of the shower in a t-shirt and a pair of yoga pants, and unfolded his long, lanky self onto the bed.

"Ah, the deliciousness of fresh sheets!" he rasped.

Tony climbed in on his side, reaching over to feel his husband's forehead. "Okay, you're a little cooler. Feel any better, my love?"

"It is only a ridiculous childhood ailment and I have made too much of my malaise. Please forgive me, dearest husband, if I have annoyed you."

"You haven't annoyed me at all, Lok. I'm concerned. It's part of my husband job, being concerned. What can I do to help?"

"I know that I feel unpleasantly warm to the touch," Loki answered softly, almost shyly. "But I might still like to be held."

"Might, or would?" Tony asked.

"Would," his husband said, "Very much would."

The minute Tony wrapped him up in his arms, Loki snuggled up to his chest and dropped straight into sleep, like a stone dropping down a well.


	6. Deep Dark (Un)truthful Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki isn't doing well. Hela removes a glove. Bruce is nicer than usual. Thor is a sweet bro. A head-injured Tony has dreams he'd be better off ignoring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> " _One time, at Band Camp_..." In the movie _American Pie_ , the phrase that the band-geek girl (played by Alysson Hannigan) uses to start all her stories. To this day, I can't begin a story with the words, "one time" without immediately wanting to add "at band camp." 
> 
> Parseltongue=the snake language in the Harry Potter books.
> 
> It might bear mentioning, in foreshadowing terms, that Thor is reading _The Shining_ , a novel about an alcoholic husband and father driven over the edge by evil voices, to the point that he tries to murder his family. Now substitute a huge tower for a huge hotel. 
> 
> Mines of Moria=the deep, dark orc-haunted dwarf-mines in _The Fellowship of the Rings_.
> 
> Warning: head injuries can get icky. Cookie-tossing ahead. 
> 
> The chapter title is taken from the Elvis Costello song, " _Deep Dark Truthful Mirror_ ," which appears on his 1989 album, _Spike._

* * *

When he woke up, at just a few minutes after seven, Tony immediately became conscious of the Loki-shaped gap beside him in the bed. His husband wasn't in the bathroom either, but when he wandered out into the living room he found Loki and Fen in one of the big chairs, both bundled in Fen's duvet with the knights on one side, dragons on the other, watching a documentary about marsupials, the little boy cuddled up on his _Pabbi's_ lap.

"There are two of my amazing guys!" Tony said, ambling over to give them each a kiss. "You hungry? Had any breakfast?"

Fen shook his head. His sending told Tony that breakfast was definitely in order, and that bacon should by all means play a starring role in the production. Loki just sat there slumped against the back of the chair, looking pale and dazed. Tony felt his forehead, then returned to the bathroom for the thermometer. His husband didn't even react when Tony stuck the probe into his ear--and this was the guy who couldn't even tolerate using ear buds to listen to music because they made him feel "as if some fell creature might with quickness unfold within (his) brain."

Honestly, Tony had been scared to ask for clarification on that one, in case the answer turned out to be one of Loki's usual stomach-turning "One time, at Band Camp..." stories, and his own hatred for Odin reached such an intense pitch that his head exploded all over the living room.

"Fenny, wanna hop up and see if your uncle has time to make breakfast before he heads off to work? Otherwise, you know I'll do it, but there might be a wait. I need to take care of _Pabbi_ for a few minutes, okay?"

Fen paused for a moment before embarking on his mission, stroking Loki's cheek with his small hand, touching his forehead to Loki's forehead.

A cartoon image of flames appeared in Tony's mind. Unlike the photorealist images the rest of the family sent, Fenrir's sendings were more-than-slightly Disneyesque.

"I know, buddy," Tony answered. " _Pabbi_ has a fever. He doesn't feel very good, but we'll all take care of him, and he'll get better soon, okay?"

A cheerful image of a hammer (with wings) took the place of the flames, and Fen scampered off happily, extremely proud of himself for being such a big boy, allowed to go on an important solo mission. His obvious pride sent a complicated feeling of mingled love, amusement and sorrow surging through Tony's chest.

He perched on the arm of the chair, brushing Loki's sweaty hair back from his face.

"Hey," he said. "Hey, Lok? You alive in there?"

Loki blinked twice, and seemed to return from... somewhere. He opened his mouth to say something, but all that came out was a weird little strangled croak, and Loki's eyes widened in alarm. Next, he obviously tried to send something, but the thoughts came through about as clear as split-pea soup.

The most Tony caught was that his husband felt really, really awful, but didn't want him to know.

"I'm afraid that ship has sailed, babe," Tony told him. "Hey, I'm going to put a sheet over the couch cushions--it'll be cooler. Then you should lie down."

He pulled his StarkPhone from his pocket, dialed, and told Bruce, without preamble, "Hey, asshole. Get up here."

"Nice greeting," Bruce rumbled back, with serious morning voice. "Asshole yourself. It's six A.M."

"I don't care. And besides, it's past seven." Tony lowered his voice, though there probably wasn't any need--Loki had slipped back into his previous altered state.

Loki also, suddenly, possessed horns. And black claws in place of his customary immaculate nails. As Tony watched, Loki's eyes shifted from green to crimson.

"He's really sick, Bruce. I'm scared. I need you."

A moment of silence followed on Bruce's end.

"I just texted Hank," he said as a follow up. "He'll be at your place in less than an hour, okay, Tone?"

"I still need you."

"I need pants," Bruce answered. Then, "I know, Tony. Just let me throw on some clothes and I'll be right up. Don't panic, okay? Take a breath, then do something useful. I swear, that always helps. Five minutes, I'll be there."

Tony hung up. When he looked closer, he saw that Loki's eyes were actually glazed. Crimson and glazed. Not merely out of focus, they looked like they were covered by a thick, gray, translucent skin, like Jöri's inner eyelids, but unmoving and colorless. The swellings under Loki's jawline had quadrupled in size and when Tony touched them to check, he found they'd gone rock-hard.

"Baby," he said. "Don't freak, okay?"

He wished he could follow his own advice. "I just want to check your... uh... downstairs area. I promise to be very, very careful---I know it's sore."

He had to fight a little to get the blanket pulled away, but it wasn't a fair fight in any way, Loki was too weak and confused.

Slowly, carefully, he untied the string on Loki's yoga pants--and two seconds later found his head actually was exploding. And that was before the back of his skull connected at warp speed with the fireplace mantel.

Time went slow, then fast, then slow again.

The room spun around a few times, in a way he'd previously only associated with youthful bouts of beyond-excessive drinking, and with much the same result--that of tossing his cookies all over the Venetian marble hearth.

It came to him that he'd married an extremely powerful being who was so sick he was off his fucking head. It also came to him that he hadn't puked _just_ because he'd undoubtedly received a #1 Grade A concussion from his husband of four months having tossed him across the room like a football, but because the reason for the initial explosion (in the two seconds before Loki flung him the width of the penthouse without raising a pinkie finger), was that his husband was so ill, and so confused, he hadn't known who was touching him, and had experienced some sort of terrifying P.T.S.D. flashback to earlier times.

"One time at Band Camp," indeed. His poor, sweet Loki... His poor Loki...

Tony tried to get back, to reassure and comfort his husband: that he was safe, he was safe, Baldr wouldn't ever come back and nothing would hurt him here, but instead he found himself helplessly throwing up again, while fire and brimstone exploded over the couch and the front door burst inward, because security codes didn't mean much if you were the fucking god of thunder and your baby brother was hurting.

And then everything went gray for a bit.

Tony woke up with a weird hole in his memory, as if the last few minutes (hours, days, whatever) simply hadn't existed. He felt... weird. Not just physically weird, but weird as if he'd just woken up from the most horrible dream of his life.

The first thing he managed to be aware of was that someone, somewhere, seemed to be playing a drum. One of the kids, maybe? It wasn't like them to be so inconsiderate, especially when their _Pabbi_ didn't feel good. They were normally the most thoughtful kids on earth.

The second thing he noticed was that Bruce and Kurt were talking back and forth in tense, pissed off voices, and that Kurt's pissed-off voice, likely because of the fangs, made him sound like he was speaking Parseltongue.

The thought made Tony want to giggle, but he had an inkling it might not be in the best taste at that particular moment. He totally hadn't known Kurt even possessed a pissed-off voice.

The third thing Tony noticed, the thing that dumped a figurative bucket of ice water over his head, was the presence of his small, beautiful daughter behind the sofa. Hela's wore her long black hair coiled up in a businesslike bun, and she looked a bit like Pepper's mini-me in an impeccably tailored black suit--the work of the estimable Mr. Pierre, no doubt.

The thing that both woke Tony up completely, and stopped his breath, though, was that she wasn't wearing one of her gloves.

Hela always wore those damn gloves, even to bed, to school, at mealtimes. Always.

Tony had teased her once, both about the gloves and her proper ways. "You know, a true lady never eats with gloves on, Empress Hela."

It had been the one time Loki had ever, unprovoked--or so he'd thought--snapped at him. "Let her be, husband!"

As previously mentioned, Loki only ever called him "husband" in two situations, opposite points of the compass, as it were: when Loki felt romantic and loving and snuggly, or when Tony had pissed him off beyond endurance, and Loki was giving him a sharp jab about living up to his duties--which every time he'd richly deserved.

Hela's delicate, ungloved fingers flexed a few times, curling open, curling shut, reminding Tony of the legs of a spider as it feels its way along a wall.

Her expression, as she regarded her _Pabbi_ wasn't exactly cold, but something else... Intent? Focused?

Tony couldn't think of the word he wanted, but her look sent a worm of cold squirming through his gut. For the first time ever, he felt scared of his powerful little daughter, and Thor's expression as his niece walked by him and out of the penthouse told Tony the thunder god had felt the same thing he'd just felt. His normally placid face looked like the mask of tragedy.

Where had Hela gone off to all on her own, Tony wondered, in the minute before Hank arrived, filling the penthouse with his commanding voice and huge, furry presence.

Hank's booming voice made the drums go off in Tony's head again, and the presence of the drums made it inevitable that he'd throw up a third time, into the wastebasket someone with foresight had placed next to the couch for him.

Bruce sat on the coffee table and held his head, which Tony saw as a good thing, since it almost certainly would have fallen completely off otherwise.

Somewhere in the midst of it, Big Blue, Little Blue, and the Brothers Friggason all just... disappeared. Tony didn't have a lot of time to wonder why before, for him, the lights went out again--and that was it, except for a vague awareness of having his head scanned, or x-rayed, or something, then of Bruce waking him up periodically to ask if he was slipping into a coma (Tony always answered no), and a couple times making him drink something. Which he did.

He felt ragingly thirsty, probably dehydrated. He hadn't thrown up so much since the last time one of Odin's sons threw him against a wall and gave him a concussion.

"Please don't think such things, Daddy," pleaded Jöri's plaintive little voice. "Please? What if _Pabbi_ heard you?"

But that might have been just a hallucination, his sweet son filing in for Jiminy Cricket, because he slipped next into a dream that he sat alone in the chilly blue-lighted room that contained J.A.R.V.I.S.'s main processors. A mirror stood before him, and in the mirror swam a face that Tony recognized as J.A.R.V.I.S.'s true face, half the face of The Great and Powerful Oz, and half the mask-face in the Evil Queen's mirror in _Snow White_ , the one that told her who was fairest of them all.

The face in the mirror didn't say who was fairest, but it did tell Tony many, many things.

He burned with betrayal. He burned with rage. He wanted to hurt someone, and keep on hurting He wanted to hurt his children.

Gods, how he wanted to hurt his husband!

Loki with his claws and his horns, his red eyes and his dead white skin. Sorcerer. Devil. Monster, the voice from the mirror said.

_Tony_ , it said, _I am your friend, your true friend. I have always been your friend. You must listen to me, and believe me._

_Must I?_ Tony wondered, before everything went gray and pleasantly hazy. _Really?_

When he woke up, for real, with a thumping-but-manageable headache and only a vague sense of nausea, he couldn't remember a word of what the face in the mirror said. Only a faint, nagging sense of dispelled rage lingered.

He lay on his back on the couch in the dead-quiet penthouse, trying to remember what had upset him so, but thinking only made his headache worse. After a while he realized that, despite the silence, and the lack of any illumination--only the dim kitchen night-light had been turned on--he wasn't alone after all.

There was a whisper of pages being gently turned, and the glint of moonlight on Thor's blond hair, as the god continued to read his Stephen King novel.

"Brother-by-law," Thor said, softly (for Thor) and solemnly, "You must by no means, in your many travels, stay so much as a night in this Overlook Hotel, for I fear it is an inn of little cheer and great danger, as Mr. King relates."

Tony groaned.

Thor shut his book. "Do you suffer, brother-by-law? How may I relieve your discomfort?"

"No, I don't suffer. Only, for god's sake, Thor, for the millionth time, it's 'brother- _in_ -law.' And, also for the millionth time, it's fiction. _Fiction!_ As in, made up. Not true. A falsehood. We've all explained the concept to you."

Thor rose, tucking in a bookmark to mark his place, his perfect lips turned down at the corners.

"You ask not after my dear Loki, brother-in-law," he said, and left, shutting the remains of the door behind him quietly.

After a possibly not brief but certainly uncomfortable time, Bruce ambled in carrying one of his eternally grubby reusable hemp shopping bags and a bright red umbrella covered with about a bazillion Angry Birds.

Tony scowled at him. "What the actual fuck, Bruce? Remind me to buy you a grown-up umbrella."

"It started raining cats and dogs right after I went out. I found this one abandoned on the subway, and yes, I'm going to turn it back in, but I didn't see the point of getting more soaked on top of the soaked I already was. Also, when did it suddenly get to be fall? It's barely seven-thirty and already dark as the Mines of Moria. So, how are you?"

"Okay. Fine. Kinda weird. Victim of very fucktastic dreams."

Tony swung his feet to the floor. He felt dizzy for about three seconds, then fine, though his head still thumped a little.

"I left Thor in charge of you. What did you do to piss him off?"

"Didn't."

"So he's striding around the lobby muttering in SpaceViking for his health? And you're acting crabby and sulky for no reason?"

"Thor is a big Norse drama queen."

Bruce reached into his Hemp Fest shopping bag and pulled out two round white cartons. "Minestrone or Italian wedding?"

"Italian wedding is the one with the spinach? Bruce, I'm hurt. It's like you don't even know me. What's next, bro? Kale?"

"You could probably use some kale. You're not exactly rocking that look of pissed-off constipation, Tone." Bruce passed him the carton of minestrone.

Being a true friend, Bruce had ventured out his way, to the place that added the good Italian sausage with the fennel seed in it to their minestrone. The minute he took off the lid Tony's mouth started watering. He felt like he hadn't eaten in ten years.

Bruce frowned down into his mess of broth, spinach and weird, globular pasta.

"Okay, so you know I'm not the number one member of the Loki fan club."

Tony snorted.

"Still, I might point out, you did get married knowing Loki's background, which is not a good background, Tone, as you'll recall. As I think I've mentioned before, even your husband's issues have issues. I appreciate that it sucks to get tossed across the room, but to carry a grudge..."

"Grudge? No grudge here."

"Coulda fooled me," Bruce muttered into his soup. "You said stuff," he added. "Not-so-good stuff."

"What does that mean?" Tony snapped.

"Nothing. A bad moment. An observation. An observation of a bad moment." Bruce spooned up spinach and globular pasta, then let it plop back into the carton. "You know what? None of my business. Disregard. As I said, a bad moment. You probably didn't..." His voice trailed off."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, bro."

"You're welcome." Looking (no other word existed for that particular expression) _unsettled_ , Bruce crammed the lid back onto his soup. "You're also clearly well enough to be left alone with your cranky self, and so I will leave you. At the moment, I actually feel sorry for your god of lies and mental illness. So goodnight. Call me if you're bleeding out your eyeballs or anything."

Bruce didn't exactly stomp off, but his posture as he left carried a definite suggestion of stomping.

"Well fuck you and the horse you rode in on," Tony growled, and flung a pillow at the closing door.

He had no idea what had made him so angry. None. Not why he'd been so pissy with Thor, or so flat-out rude with Bruce, his best friend, who'd gone out in the rain to bring back his favorite soup.

Tony flopped into the couch cushions, pulling Loki's plushy green throw over his head, smelling his husband's pine-snow-clove scent in its fibers as dismay and self-disgust knotted his belly.

He shouldn't be mad at Loki. He shouldn't. He shouldn't be mad at anyone.

Except that the strange-but-familiar voice from the mirror kept whispering inside his head. Words he couldn't understand, but were only too familiar. Words he absolutely knew were false, but couldn't help but accept as true.

He should have checked on the kids.

He shouldn't have spoken to Thor the way he had.

He absolutely should have checked on Loki.

He was worried as hell. But at the same time, he... wasn't.

On the table in front of him, the phone rang--not his personal cell, or even his husband's, but the ever-so-old fashioned and out-of-date landline, only kept because Tony could shield it better than the mobiles Loki burned through like so many matches.

One ring.

Two rings.

Three...

Tony picked up, with no idea in hell why he'd bothered.

"Hello? Yeah?" he rasped into the receiver, hardly recognizing his own voice. He still sound hoarse and... what was the word?

_Belligerent_. He sounded belligerent.

He sounded just like his father, when Howard really got his drunk on.

For a long time Tony heard only a distant patter, like falling snow, and along with the sound, far-off voices murmuring in languages he had no hope of understanding. Voices like the ones they'd heard along the dead lines in Wales, when they'd so desperately needed help, but couldn't reach anyone, or anything.

One of them had a name for those voices, he recalled, a name Tony now almost remembered. What had it been?

_The voices of Annwn,_ it came to him then, in a woman's voice, crisp, clear and condescending.

Only Anthea had sounded like that, so precise, so commanding. Mary only sounded kind or, sometimes, as if close to laughing.

What was it his husband had explained once? "That which Morgana, my old friend, knows as Annwn, I myself name Helheimr, or perhaps The Dismal Lands. By both are names for the World of the Dead. Although, 'tis also true, Annwn may mean merely "underground."

"An argument could be made," Tony remembered answering, "That underground pretty much _is_ the world of the dead."

"But of life as well," Loki countered, "As in the roots of trees as they spread, or of seeds in their unfurling."

"I can't debate with you, Lok" Tony had laughed, before kissing his husband soundly, "Babe, you make my head spin!"

His head did spin, and hum, and crackle with what he always thought of as the March of the Centipedes. Tony strained to hear something, anything, outside all that noise, even imagining, once, that he'd made out something of what those far-off voices tried to tell him...

Maybe... Almost...

"Mr. Stark?" a voice spoke up suddenly, so loud it hurt Tony's ear--a deep-pitched voice, deep as the whole underground, accented in a way that hit hard on the "t" and "k" in his name.

"Prof. Nelson?" Tony asked--with a voice like that, who else could it have been?

"I hadn't meant to cause alarm," Prof. Nels Lars Nelson said. "I only rang to ask--how is Loki feeling?"

Tony found himself caught up suddenly in a cloud of almost, but not quite, _knowing._..

Knowing what, though? He tried to rush after the question and the answer both, to catch hold before they escaped him. The receiver slipped through his numb fingers and dropped to the carpet, bouncing a time or two before it settled.

He'd lost them, Tony knew. Lost his answers. Lost everything.

"Mr. Stark?" Nelson's voice rang out again, sounding far away, yet at the same time near--too near--and almost jolly.

_You fucker_ , Tony thought, not even sure who he was talking to--Nelson? Loki? Himself?

"You fucker," he breathed, and discovered that his eyes had started leaking.

In the back of Tony's head, something snide, cruel and cold laughed on and on, crazy with glee at his misery.

 

To be continued in _Xenophobia_


End file.
